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DON  QUIXOTE. 


VOLUME  I. 


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■.1:. 


■ \- 


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THE  INGENIOUS  GENTLEMAN 


DON  Q.UIXOTE 

OF  LA  MANCHA 

BY 

MIGUEL  DE  CERVANTES  SAAVEDRA 

v\ 

A TRANSLATION,  WITH  INTRODUCTION  AND  NOTES 
BY 

JOHN  ORMSBY 

TRANSLATOR  OF  THE  “ POEM  OF  THE  CID  ” 


IN  FOUR  VOLUMES 

VOL.  1. 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS  BY  CRUIKSHANK 
AND  LALAUZE 


NEW  YORK 

THE  HARVARD  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 

i8gi 


THIS  EDITION  IS  SPECIALLY  PRINTED  AND  LIMITED  TO 
SIN  HUNDRED  AND  FIFTY-EIGHT  COPIES,  OF  WHICH 
THIS  IS  NO. 


o 

CD 


Eo- 


Yl 


CONTENTS  OF  THE  FIRST  VOLUME. 


INTRODUCTION 


O 

o 

IP 


Prefatory . 
Cervantes . 
“Don  Quixote” 


— , PART  1. 

THE  AUTHOR’S  PREFACE  . . . 

-^COMMENDATORY  VERSES 

J CHAPTER 

^ I.  Which  treats  of  the  character  and  pursuits  of 
the  famous  gentleman  Don  Quixote  of  La 

Mancha  

H.  Which  treats  of  the  first  sally  the  ingenious 

Don  Quixote  made  from  home 

HI.  Wherein  is  related  the  droll  way  in  which  Don 
Quixote  had  himself  dubbed  a knight  . . 

IV.  Of  what  happened  to  our  knight  when  he  left 

THE  INN 

V.  In  which  the  narrative  of  our  knight’s  mishap 

IS  CONTINUED 

VI.  Of  THE  diverting  and  important  SCRUTINY  which 
, THE  Curate  and  the  Barber  made  in  the 

LIBRARY  OF  OUR  INGENIOUS  GENTLEMAN  . 

VH.  Of  the  second  sally  of  our  worthy  knight  Don 

Quixote  of  La  Mancha 

v 


335940 


PAGE 

19 

74 


”5 

129 

I4I 

150 

I6I 

I7I 

182 

189 

204 


vi  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  page 

VIII.  Of  the  good  fortune  which  the  valiant  Don 
Quixote  had  in  the  terrible  and  undreamt- 
of ADVENTURE  OF  THE  WINDMILLS,  WITH  OTHER 
OCCURRENCES  WORTHY  TO  BE  FITLY  RECORDED  . 213 

IX.  In  which  is  concluded  and  finished  the  ter- 

rific BATTLE  BETWEEN  THE  GALLANT  BlSCAYAN 
AND  THE  VALIANT  MANCHEGAN 226 

X.  Of  the  pleasant  discourse  that  passed  between 

Don  Quixote  and  his  squire  Sancho  Panza  . 235 

XI.  Of  what  befell  Don  Quixote  with  certain 

GOATHERDS 244 

XII.  Of  what  a goatherd  related  to  those  with 

Don  Quixote 255 

XIII.  In  which  is  ended  the  story  of  the  shepherd- 

ess Marcela,  with  other  incidents  . . .265 

XIV.  Wherein  are  inserted  the  despairing  verses 

OF  THE  DEAD  SHEPHERD,  TOGETHER  WITH  OTHER 

INCIDENTS  NOT  LOOKED  FOR 280 

XV.  In'  which  is  related  the  unfortunate  adven- 
ture THAT  Don  Quixote  fell  in  with  when 
HE  FELL  OUT  WITH  CERTAIN  HEARTLESS  YAN- 
GUESANS 293 

XVI.  Of  what  happened  to  the  ingenious  gentle- 
man IN  THE  INN  WHICH  HE  TOOK  TO  BE  A CASTLE,  305 

XVII.  In  WHICH  ARE  CONTAINED  THE  INNUMERABLE 
TROUBLES  WHICH  THE  BRAVE  DON  QuiXOTE  AND 
HIS  GOOD  SQUIRE  SaNCHO  PaNZA  ENDURED  IN 
THE  INN,  WHICH  TO  HIS  MISFORTUNE  HE  TOOK 
TO  BE  A CASTLE 31 7 

XVIII.  In  which  is  related  the  discourse  Sancho 
Panza  held  with  his  master,  Don  Quixote, 
together  with  other  adventures  worth 
relating 330 


CONTENTS. 


Vll 

PAGE 


CHAPTEK 

XIX.  Of  the  shrewd  discourse  which  Sancho  held 

WITH  HIS  MASTER,  AND  OF  THE  ADVENTURE  THAT 
BEFELL  HIM  WITH  A DEAD  BODY,  TOGETHER  WITH 

OTHER  NOTABLE  OCCURRENCES  346 

XX.  Of  the  UNEXAMPLED  AND  UNHEARD-OF  ADVENTURE 
WHICH  WAS  ACHIEVED  BY  THE  VALIANT  DON 

Quixote  of  La  Mancha  with  less  peril  than 

ANY  EVER  ACHIEVED  BY  ANY  FAMOUS  KNIGHT 
IN  THE  WORLD 358 

XXL  Which  treats  of  the  exalted  adventure  and 

RICH  PRIZE  OF  MAMBRINO’S  HELMET,  TOGETHER 
WITH  OTHER'  THINGS  THAT  HAPPENED  TO  OUR 
INVINCIBLE  KNIGHT  ....  ...  . 378 

XXII.  Of  THE  FREEDOM  DON  QuiXOTE  CONFERRED  ON 
SEVERAL  UNFORTUNATES  WHO  AGAINST  THEIR 
WILL  WERE  BEING  CARRIED  WHERE  THEY  HAD 
NO  WISH  TO  GO 397 

XXIII.  Of  what  befell  Don  Quixote  in  the  Sierra 
Morena,  which  was  one  of  the  rarest  ad- 
ventures RELATED  IN  THIS  VERACIOUS  HISTORY  . 414 
XXIV.  In  which  is  continued  the  adventure  of  the 

Sierra  Morena 433 

MAP.  Central  Spain,  including  La  Mancha. 


INTRODUCTION. 


PREFATORY.  ■ 

It  was  with  considerable  reluctance  that  I aban- 
doned in  favor  of  the  present  undertaking  what  had 
long  been  a favorite  project,  that  of  a new  edition  of 
Shelton’s  “ Don  Quixote,”  which  has  now  become 
a somewhat  scarce  book.  There  are  some  — and  I 
confess  myself  to  be  one  — for  whom  Shelton’s  racy 
old  version,  with  all  its  defects,  has  a charm  that  no 
modern  translation,  however  skilful  or  correct,  could 
possess.  Shelton  had  the  inestimable  advantage  of 
belonging  to  the  same  generation  as  Cervantes ; “ Don 
Quixote  ” had  to  him  a vitality  that  only  a contempo- 
rary could  feel ; it  cost  him  no  dramatic  effort  to  see 
things  as  Cervantes  saw  them ; there  is  no  anach- 
ronism in  his  language ; he  put  the  Spanish  of  Cer- 
vantes into  the  English  of  Shakespeare.  Shakespeare 
himself  most  likely  knew  the  book ; he  may  have 
carried  it  home  with  him  in  his  saddle-bags  to  Strat- 
ford on  one  of  his  last  journeys,  and  under  the  mul- 
berry tree  at  New  Place  joined  hands  with  a kindred 
genius  in  its  pages. 

But  it  was  soon  made  plain  to  me  that  to  hope  for 


INTRO  D UC  TION. 


even  a moderate  popularity  for  Shelton  was  vain.  His 
fine  old  crusted  English  would,  no  doubt,  be  relished 
by  a minority,  but  it  would  be  only  by  a minority. 
His  version  has  strong  claims  on  sentimental  grounds, 
but  on  sentimental  grounds  only.  His  warmest  ad- 
mirers must  admit  that  he  is  not  a satisfactory  repre- 
sentative of  Cervantes.  His  translation  of  the  First 
Part  was  very  hastily  made  — in  forty  days  he  says  in 
his  dedication  — and,  as  his  marginal  notes  show, 
never  revised  by  him.  It  has  all  the  freshness  and 
vigor,  but  also  a full  measure  of  the  faults,  of  a hasty 
production.  It  is  often  very  literal  — barbarously 
literal  frequently  — but  just  as  often  very  loose.  He 
had  evidently  a good  colloquial  knowledge  of  Span- 
ish, but  apparently  not  much  more.  It  never  seems 
to  occur  to  him  that  the  same  translation  of  a word 
will  not  suit  in  every  case.  With  him  “ discrete  ” — 
a chameleon  of  a word  in  its  way  of  taking  various 
meanings  according  to  circumstances  — is  always  “ dis- 
creet,” ‘‘admirar”  is  always  “admire,”  “sucesos” 
always  “successes”  (which  it  seldom  means),  “ho- 
nesto  ” always  “honest”  (which  it  never  means), 
“ suspense  ” always  “ suspended  ; ” “ desrnayarse,”  to 
swoon  or  faint,  is  always  “ to  dismay”  (one  lady  is  a 
“ mutable  and  dismayed  traitress,”  when  “ fickle  and 
fainting  ” is  meant,  and  another  “ made  shew  of  dis- 
maying ” when  she  “seemed  ready  to  faint”); 
“ trance,”  a crisis  or  emergency,  is  always  simply 
“trance;”  “disparates”  always  “fopperies,”  which, 
however,  if  not  a translation,  is  an  illustration  of  the 


PREFATORY. 


3 


meaning,  for  it  is  indeed  “nonsense.”  These  are 
merely  a few  samples  taken  at  hap-hazard,  but  they 
will  suffice  to  show  how  Shelton  translated,  and  why 
his  “ Don  Quixote,”  veritable  treasure  as  it  is  to  the 
Cervantist  and  to  the  lover  of  old  books  and  old 
Knglish,  cannot  be  accepted  as  an  adequate  trans- 
lation. 

It  is  often  said  that  we  have  no  satisfactory  trans- 
lation of  “ Don  Quixote.”  To  those  who  are  familiar 
with  the  original,  it  savors  of  truism  or  platitude  to 
say  so,  for  in  truth  there  can  be  no  thoroughly  satis- 
factory translation  of  “ Don  Quixote  ” into  English  or 
any  other  language.  It  is  not  that  the  Spanish  idioms 
are  so  utterly  unmanageable,  or  that  the  untranslatable 
words,  numerous  enough  no  doubt,  are  so  superabun- 
dant, but  rather  that  the  sententious  terseness  to 
which  the  humor  of  the  book  owes  its  flavor  is 
peculiar  to  Spanish,  and  can  at  best  be  only  distantly 
imitated  in  any  other  tongue.  The  dilemma  of  the 
translator  frequently  is  this,  that  terseness  is  essential 
to  the  humor  of  the  phrase  or  passage,  but  if  he 
translates  he  will  not  be  terse,  and  if  he  would  be 
terse  he  must  paraphrase. 

The  history  of  our  English  translations  of  “ Don 
Quixote  ” is  instructive.  Shelton’s,  the  first  in  any 
language,  was  made,  apparently,  about  1608,  but  not 
published  till  1612.  This  of  course  was  only  the 
First  Part.  It  has  been  asserted  that  the  Second, 
published  in  1620,  is  not  the  work  of  Shelton,  but 
there  is  nothing  to  support  the  assertion  save  the  fact 


4 


INTROD  UCTION. 


that  it  has  less  spirit,  less  of  what  we  generally  under- 
stand by  ‘‘  go,”  about  it  than  the  first,  which  would  be 
only  natural  if  the  first  were  the  work  of  a young  man 
writing  ciirreiite  calamo,  and  the  second  that  of  a 
middle-aged  man  writing  for  a bookseller.  On  the 
other  hand,  it  is  closer  and  more  literal,  the  style  is 
the  same,  the  very  same  translations,  or  mistransla- 
tions, of  “ suceso,”  “ trance,”  “ desmayarse,”  etc., 
occur  in  it,  and  it  is  extremely  unlikely  that  a new 
translator  would,  by  suppressing  his  name,  have 
allowed  Shelton  to  carry  off  the  credit. 

In  1687  John  Phillips,  Milton’s  nephew,  produced 
a “ Don  Quixote  ” “ made  English,”  he  says,  “ accord- 
ing to  the  humour  of  our  modern  language.”  'Fhe 
origin  of  this  attempt  is  plain  enough.  In  1656  that 
indecorous  Oxford  Don,  Edmond  Gayton,  had  pro- 
duced his  ‘‘  Festivous  Notes  on  Don  Quixote,”  a 
string  of  jests,  more  or  less  dirty,  on  the  incidents  in 
the  story,  which  seems  to  have  been  much  relished  ; 
and  in  1667  Sir  Roger  1’ Estrange  had  published  his 
version  of  Quevedo’s  “Visions”  from  the  French  of 
La  Geneste,  a book  which  the  lively  though  decid- 
edly coarse  humor,  cockney  jokes  and  London  slang, 
wherewith  he  liberally  seasoned  it,  made  a prodigious 
favorite  with  the  Restoration  public.  It  struck  Phil- 
lips that,  as  Shelton  was  now  rather  antiquated,  a 
“ Don  Quixote  ” treated  in  the  same  way  might  prove 
equally  successful.  He  imitated  L’Estrange  as  well 
as  he  could,  but  L’Estrange  was  a clever  penman  and 
a humorist  after  his  fashion,  while  Phillips  was  only  a 


PREFATORY. 


5 


(lull  buffoon.  His  Quixote  ” is  not  so  much  a trans- 
lation as  a travesty,  and  a travesty  that  for  coarseness, 
vulgarity,  and  buffoonery  is  almost  unexampled  even 
in  the  literature  of  that  day. 

Ned  Ward’s  “Life  and  Notable  Adventures  of  Don 
Quixote,  merrily  translated  into  Hudibrastic  Verse” 
(1700),  can  scarcely  be  reckoned  a translation,  but  it 
serves  to  show  the  light  in  which  “ Don  Quixote  ” was 
regarded  at  the  time. 

A further  illustration  may  be  found  in  the  version 
published  in  1712  by  Pker  Motteux,  who  had  then 
recently  combined  tea-dealing  with  literature.  It  is 
described  as  “ translated  from  the  original  by  several 
hands,”  but  if  so  all  Spanish  flavor  has  entirely  evapo- 
rated under  the  manipulation  of  the  several  hands. 
The  flavor  that  it  has,  on  the  other  hand,  is  distinctly 
Franco-cockney.  Any  one  who  compares  it  care’^k  - 
with  the  original  will  have  little  doubt  that  it  is  a < 
coction  from  Shelton  and  the  French  of  Filleau  de 
Saint  Martin,  eked  out  by  borrowings  from  Phillips, 
whose  mode  of  treatment  it  adopts.  It  is,  to  be 
sure,  more  decent  and  decorous,  but  it  treats  “ Don 
Quixote  ” in  the  same  fashion  as  a comic  book  that 
cannot  be  made  too  comic. 

To  attempt  to  improve  the  humor  of  “ Don  Qui- 
xote ” by  an  infusion  of  cockney  flippancy  and  face- 
tiousness, as  Motteux’s  operators  did,  is  not  merely 
an  impertinence  like  larding  a sirloin  of  prize  beef, 
but  an  absolute  falsification  of  the  spirit  of  the  book, 
and  it  is  a proof  of  the  uncritical  way  in  which  “ Don 


6 


INTRO  D UCTION 


Quixote  ” is  generally  read  that  this  worse  than  worth- 
less translation  — worthless  as  failing  to  represent, 
worse  than  worthless  as  misrepresenting  — should 
have  been  favored  as  it  has  been.  That  it  should 
have  been  popular  in  its  own  day,  or  that  a critic 
who  understood  the  original  so  little  as  Alexander 
Fraser  Tytler  should  think  it  “ by  far  the  best,”  is  no 
great  wonder.  But  that  so  admirable  a scholar  as 
Ticknor  should  have  given  it  even  the  lukewarm 
approval  he  bestows  upon  it,  and  that  it  should  have 
been  selected  for  reproduction  in  luxurious  shapes 
three  or  four  times  within  these  last  three  or  four 
years,  is  somewhat  surprising.  Ford,  whose  keen 
sense  of  humor,  and  intimate  knowledge  of  Spain  and 
the  Spanish  character,  make  him  a more  trustworthy 
critic  on  this  particular  question  than  even  the  illus- 
^^nns  American,  calls  it  of  all  English  translations 
j very  worst.”  This  is  of  course  too  strong,  for  it 
IS  not  and  could  not  be  worse  than  Phillips’s,  but  the 
vast  majority  of  those  who  can  relish  “ Don  Quixote  ” 
in  the  original  will  confirm  the  judgment  substan- 
tially. 

It  had  the  effect,  however,  of  bringing  out  a trans- 
lation undertaken  and  executed  in  a very  different 
spirit,  that  of  Charles  Jervas,  the  portrait  painter,  and 
friend  of  Pope,  Swift,  Arbuthnot,  and  Gay.  Jervas 
has  been  allowed  little  credit  for  his  work,  indeed  it 
may  be  said  none,  for  it  is  known  to  the  world  in 
general  as  Jarvis’s.  It  was  not  published  until  after 
his  death,  and  the  printers  gave  the  name  according 


PREFATORY. 


7 


to  the  current  pronunciation  of  the  day.  It  has  been 
the  most  freely  used  and  the  most  freely  abused  of 
all  the  translations.  It  has  seen  far  more  editions 
than  any  other,  it  is  admitted  on  all  hands  to  be  by 
far  the  most  faithful,  and  yet  nobody  seems  to  have 
a good  word  to  say  for  it  or  for  its  author.  Jervas 
no  doubt  prejudiced  readers  against  himself  in  his 
preface,  where  among  many  true  words  about  Shelton, 
Stevens,  and  Motteux,  he  rashly  and  unjustly  charges 
Shelton  with  having  translated  not  from  the  Spanish, 
but  from  the  Italian  version  of  Franciosini,  which  did 
not  appear  until  ten  years  after  Shelton’s  first  volume. 
A suspicion  of  incompetence,  too,  seems  to  have  at- 
tached to  him  because  he  was  by  profession  a painter 
and  a mediocre  one  (though  he  has  given  us  the  best 
portrait  we  have  of  Swift),  and  this  may  have  been 
strengthened  by  Pope’s  remark  that  he  “ trans  ’ ‘■e 
‘ Don  Quixote  ’ without  understanding  Spanish.” 
has  been  also  charged  with  borrowing  from  Shelton, 
whom  he  disparaged.  It  is  true  that  in  a few  difficult 
or  obscure  passages  he  has  followed  Shelton,  and 
gone  astray  with  him ; but  for  one  case  of  this  sort, 
there  are  fifty  where  he  is  right  and  Shelton  wrong. 
As  for  Pope’s  dictum,  any  one  who  examines  Jervas’s 
version  carefully,  side  by  side  with  the  original,  will 
see  that  he  was  a sound  Spanish  scholar,  incomparably 
a better  one  than  Shelton,  except  perhaps  in  mere 
colloquial  Spanish.  Unlike  Shelton,  and  indeed  most 
translators,  who  are  generally  satisfied  with  the  first 
dictionary  meaning  or  have  a stereotyped  translation 


8 


INTROD  UCTION. 


for  every  word  under  all  circumstances,  he  was  alive 
to  delicate  distinctions  of  meaning,  always  an  impor- 
tant matter  in  Spanish,  but  especially  in  the  Spanish 
of  Cervantes,  and  his  notes  show  that  he  was  a dili- 
gent student  of  the  great  Spanish  Academy  Dictionary, 
at  least  its  earlier  volumes  ; for  he  died  in  1 739,  the 
year  in  which  the  last  was  printed.  His  notes  show, 
besides,  that  he  was  a man  of  very  considerable  read- 
ing, particularly  in  the  department  of  chivalry  romance, 
and  they  in  many  instances  anticipate  Bowie,  who 
generally  has  the  credit  of  being  the  first  ‘‘  Quixote  ” 
annotator  and  commentator.  He  was,  in  fact,  an 
honest,  faithful,  and  painstaking  translator,  and  he 
has  left  a version  which,  whatever  its  shortcomings 
may  be,  is  singularly  free  from  errors  and  mistransla- 
tions. 

le  charge  against  it  is  that  it  is  stiff,  dry  — 

oden”  in  a word,  — and  no  one  can  deny  that 
there  is  foundation  for  it.  But  it  may  be  pleaded  for 
Jervas  that  a good  deal  of  this  rigidity  is  due  to  his 
abhorrence  of  the  light,  flippant,  jocose  style  of  his 
predecessor.  He  was  one  of  the  few,  very  few, 
translators  that  have  shown  any  apprehension  of  the 
unsmiling  gravity  which  is  the  essence  of  Quixotic 
humor ; it  seemed  to  him  a crime  to  bring  Cervantes 
forward  smirking  and  grinning  at  his  own  good  things, 
and  to  this  may  be  attributed  in  a great  measure  the 
ascetic  abstinence  from  every  thing  savoring  of  live- 
liness which  is  the  characteristic  of  his  translation. 
Could  he  have  caught  but  ever  so  little  of  Swift’s  or 


PREFATORY. 


9 


Arbuthnot’s  style,  he  might  have  hit  upon  a via  media 
that  would  have  made  his  version  as  readable  as  it  is 
faithful,  or  at  any  rate  saved  him  from  the  reproach 
of  having  marred  some  of  the  best  scenes  in  Don 
Quixote.”  In  most  modern  editions,  it  should  be 
observed,  his  style  has  been  smoothed  and  smartened, 
but  without  any  reference  to  the  original  Spanish,  so 
that  if  he  has  been  made  to  read  more  agreeably  he 
has  also  been  robbed  of  his  chief  merit  of  fidelity. 

Smollett’s  version,  published  in  1755,  may  be  almost 
counted  as  one  of  these.  At  any  rate  it  is  plain  that 
in  its  construction  Jervas’s  translation  was  very  freely 
drawn  upon,  and  very  little  or  probably  no  heed  given 
to  the  original  Spanish. 

The  later  translations  may  be  dismissed  in  a few 
words.  George  Kelly’s,  which  appeared  in  1769, 
“printed  for  the  Translator,”  was  an  impudent  im- 
posture, being  nothing  more  than  Motteux’s  version 
with  a few  of  the  words,  here  and  there,  artfully  trans- 
posed; Charles  Wilmot’s  (1774)  was  only  an  abridg- 
ment like  Florian’s,  but  not  so  skilfully  executed ; 
and  the  version  published  by  Miss  Smirke  in  1818,  to 
accompany  her  brother’s  plates,  was  merely  a patch- 
work  production  made  out  of  former  translations.  On 
the  latest,  Mr.  A.  J.  Duffield’s,  it  would  be  in  every 
sense  of  the  word  impertinent  in  me  to  offer  an 
opinion  here.  I had  not  even  seen  it  when  the 
present  undertaking  was  proposed  to  me,  and  since 
then  1 may  say  vidi  tantum,  having  for  obvious  rea- 
sons resisted  the  temptation  which  Mr.  Duffield’s 


o 


INTROD  UCTION. 


reputation  and  comely  volumes  hold  out  to  every 
lover  of  Cervantes. 

From  the  foregoing  history  of  our  translations  of 
Don  Quixote,”  it  will  be  seen  that  there  are  a good 
many  people  who,  provided  they  get  the  mere  narra- 
tive with  its  full  complement  of  facts,  incidents,  and 
adventures  served  up  to  them  in  a form  that  amuses 
them,  care  very  little  whether  that  form  is  the  one  in 
which  Cervantes  originally  shaped  his  ideas.  On  the 
other  hand,  it  is  clear  that  there  are  many  who  desire 
to  have  not  merely  the  story  he  tells,  but  the  story  as 
he  tells  it,  so  far  at  least  as  differences  of  idiom  and 
circumstances  permit,  and  who  will  give  a preference 
to  the  conscientious  translator,  even  though  he  may 
have  acquitted  himself  somewhat  awkwardly.  It  is 
not  very  likely  that  readers  of  the  first  class  are  less 
numerous  now  than  they  used  to  be,  but  it  is  no 
extravagant  optimism  to  assume  that  there  are  many 
more  of  the  other  way  of  thinking  than  there  were  a 
century  and  a half  ago. 

But  after  all  there  is  no  real  antagonism  between 
the  two  classes ; there  is  no  reason  why  what  pleases 
the  one  should  not  please  the  other,  or  why  a transla- 
tor who  makes  it  his  aim  to  treat  “ Don  Quixote  ” with 
the  respect  due  to  a great  classic,  should  not  be  as 
acceptable  even  to  the  careless  reader  as  tlie  one  who 
treats  it  as  a famous  old  jest-book.  It  is  not  a ques- 
tion of  caviare  to  the  general,  or,  if  it  is,  the  fault 
rests  with  him  who  makes  it  so.  The  method  by 
which  Cervantes  won  the  ear  of  the  Spanish  people 


PREFATORY. 


1 I 

ought,  niutatis  ?nutandis,  to  be  equally  effective  with 
tlie  great  majority  of  English  readers.  At  any  rate, 
even  if  there  are  readers  to  whom  it  is  a matter  of 
indifference,  fidelity  to  the  method  is  as  much  a part 
of  the  translator’s  duty  as  fidelity  to  the  matter.  If  he 
can  please  all  parties,  so  much  the  better ; but  his  first 
duty  is  to  those  who  look  to  him  for  as  faithful  a rep- 
resentation of  his  author  as  it  is  in  his  power  to  give 
them,  faithful  to  the  letter  so  long  as  fidelity  is  prac- 
ticable, faithful  to  the  spirit  so  far  as  he  can  make  it. 

With  regard  to  fidelity  to  the  letter,  there  is  of 
course  no  hard  and  fast  rule  to  be  observed ; a trans- 
lator is  bound  to  be  literal  as  long  as  he  can,  but  per- 
sistence in  absolute  literality,  when  it  fails  to  convey 
the  author’s  idea  in  the  shape  the  author  intended,  is 
as  great  an  offence  against  fidelity  as  the  loosest  para- 
phrase. As  to  fidelky  to  the  spirit,  perhaps  the  only 
rule  is  for  the  translator  to  sink  his  own  individuality 
altogether,  and  content  himself  with  reflecting  his 
author  truthfully.  It  is  disregard  of  this  rule  that 
makes  French  translations,  admirable  as  they  gener- 
ally are  in  all  that  belongs  to  literary  workmanship,  so 
often  unsatisfactory.  French  translators,  for  the  most 
part,  seem  to  consider  themselves  charged  with  the 
duty  of  introducing  their  author  to  polite  society,  and 
to  feel  themselves  in  a measure  responsible  for  his 
behavior.  There  is  always  in  their  versions  a certain 
air  of  ‘‘  Bear  your  body  more  seeming,  Audrey.”  Viar- 
dot,  for  example,  has  produced  a “ Don  Quixote  ” that 
is  delightfully  smooth,  easy  reading ; but  the  Castilian 


2 


INTRO  D UCTION. 


character  has  been  smoothed  away.  He  has  forced 
Cervantes  into  a French  mould,  instead  of  moulding 
his  French  to  the  features  of  Cervantes.  It  is  hardly 
fair,  perhaps,  to  expect  a Frenchman  to  efface  himself 
and  consent  to  play  second  fiddle  under  any  circum- 
stances ; but  to  look  for  a translation  true  to  the  spirit 
from  a translator  who  holds  himself  free  to  improve 
his  author  is,  as  a Spaniard  would  say,  to  ask  pears 
from  the  elm  tree.” 

My  purpose  here,  however,  is  not  to  dogmatize  on 
the  rules  of  translation,  but  to  indicate  those  I have 
followed,  or  at  least  tried  to  the  best  of  my  ability  to 
follow,  in  the  present  instance.  One  which,  it  seems 
to  me,  cannot  be  too  rigidly  followed  in  translating 
“ Don  Quixote,”  is  to  avoid  every  thing  that  savors  of 
affectation.  The  book  itself  is,  indeed,  in  one  sense  a 
protest  against  it,  and  no  man  abhorred  it  more  than 
Cervantes.  “Toda  afectacion  es  mala,”  is  one  of  his 
favorite  proverbs.  For  this  reason,  I think,  any 
temptation  to  use  antiquated  or  obsolete  language 
should  be  resisted.  It  is  after  all  an  affectation,  and 
one  for  which  there  is  no  warrant  or  excuse.  Spanish 
has  probably  undergone  less  change  since  the  seven- 
teenth century  than  any  language  in  Europe,  and  by 
far  the  greater  and  certainly  the  best  part  of  “ Don 
Quixote  ” differs  but  little  in  language  from  the  collo- 
quial Spanish  of  the  present  day.  That  wonderful 
supper-table  conversation  on  books  of  chivalry  in 
chap,  xxxii.  Part  I.  is  just  such  a one  as  might  be 
heard  now  in  any  venta  in  Spain.  Except  in  the  tales 


PREFATORY. 


3 


and  Don  Quixote’s  speeches,  the  translator  who  uses 
the  simplest  and  plainest  every-day  language  will  al- 
most always  be  the  one  who  approaches  nearest  to  the 
original. 

Seeing  that  the  story  of  “ Don  Quixote  ” and  all  its 
characters  and  incidents  have  now  been  for  more  than 
two  centuries  and  a half  familiar  as  household  words 
in  English  mouths,  it  seems  to  me  that  the  old  familiar 
names  and  phrases  should  not  be  changed  without 
good  reason.  I am  by  no  means  sure  that  I have 
done  rightly  in  dropping  Shelton’s  barbarous  title  of 
“ Curious  Impertinent  ” by  which  the  novel  in  the 
First  Part  has  been  so  long  known.  It  is  not  a trans- 
lation, and  it  is  not  English,  but  it  has  so  long  passed 
current  as  the  title  of  the  story  that  its  original  absurd- 
ity has  been,  so  to  speak,  effaced  by  time  and  use. 
“ Ingenious  ” is,  no  doubt,  not  an  exact  translation  of 
“ Ingenioso ; ” but  even  if  an  exact  one  could  be 
found,  I doubt  if  any  end  would  be  served  by  substi- 
tuting it.  No  one  is  likely  to  attach  the  idea  of  inge- 
nuity to  Don  Quixote.'  ‘‘  Dapple  ” is  not  the  correct 
translation  of  ‘‘rucio,”  as  I have  pointed  out  in  a note, 
but  it  has  so  long  done  duty  as  the  distinctive  title  of 


* “ Ingenio  ” was  used  in  Cervantes’  time  in  very  nearly  the  same  way  as 
“wit”  with  us  at  about  the  same  period,  for  the  imaginative  or  inventive 
faculty.  Collections  of  plays  were  always  described  as  being  by  “ los  mejores 
ingenios  ” — “ the  best  wits.”  By  “ Ingenioso”  he  means  one  in  whom  the 
imagination  is  the  dominant  faculty,  overruling  reason.  The  opposite  is  the 
“ discreto,”  he  in  whom  the  discerfiing  faculty  has  the  upper  hand  — he 
whose  reason  keeps  the  imagination  under  due  control.  The  distinction  is 
admirably  worked  out  in  chapters  xvi.,  xvii.  and  xviii.  of  Part  II. 


H 


JNTR  OD  UC  TION. 


Sancho’s  ass  that  nobody,  probably,  connects  the  idea 
of  color  with  it.  “ Curate  ” is  not  an  accurate  trans- 
lation of  “ cura,”  but  no  one  is  likely  to  confound  Don 
Quixote’s  good  fussy  neighbor  with  the  curate  who 
figures  in  modern  fiction.  For  Knight  of  the  Rueful 
Countenance,”  no  defence  is  necessary,  for,  as  I have 
shown  {zK  chap,  xix.),  it  is  quite  right;  Sancho  uses 
“ triste  figura”  as  synonymous  with  “mala  cara.” 

The  names  of  things  peculiarly  Spanish,  like  “olla,” 
“ bota,”  “ alforjas,”  etc.,  are,  I think,  better  left  in 
their  original  Spanish  ; translations  like  “ bottle  ” and 
“ saddle-bags  ” give  an  incorrect  idea,  and  books  of 
travel  in  Spain  have  made  the  words  sufficiently  famil- 
iar to  most  readers.  It  is  less  easy  to  deal  with  the 
class  of  words  that  are  untranslatable,  or  at  least  trans- 
latable only  by  two  or  more  words  ; such  words  as 
“ desengano,”  “ discreto,”  “ donaire,”  and  the  like, 
which  in  cases  where  conciseness  is  of  at  least  equal 
importance  with  literality  must  often  be  left  only 
partially  translated. 

Of  course  a translator  who  holds  that  “ Don  Qui- 
xote ” should  receive  the  treatment  a great  classic  de- 
serves, will  feel  himself  bound  by  the  injunction  laid 
upon  the  Morisco  in  chap.  ix.  not  to  omit  or  add  any 
thing.  Every  one  who  takes  up  a sixteenth  or  seven- 
teenth century  author  knows  very  well  beforehand  that 
he  need  not  expect  to  find  strict  observance  of  the 
canons  of  nineteenth*  century  society.  Two  or  three 
hundred  years  ago,  words,  phrases,  and  allusions  were 
current  in  ordinary  conversation  which  would  be  as 


PREFATORY. 


15 


inadmissible  now  as  the  costume  of  our  first  parents, 
and  an  author  who  reflects  the  life  and  manners  of  his 
time  must  necessarily  reflect  its  language  also. 

This  is  the  case  of  Cervantes.  There  is  no  more 
apology  needed  on  his  behalf  than  on  behalf  of  the 
age  in  which  he  lived.  He  was  not  one  of  those 
authors  for  whom  dirt  has  the  attraction  it  has  for  the 
bluebottle  ; he  was  not  even  one  of  those  that  with  a 
jolly  indifference  treat  it  as  capital  matter  to  make 
a joke  of.  Compared  with  his  contemporaries  and 
most  of  his  successors  who  dealt  with  life  and  man- 
ners, he  is  purity  itself ; there  are  words,  phrases,  and 
allusions  that  one  could  wish  away,  there  are  things 
— though  very  few  after  all  — that  offend  one,  but 
there  is  no  impurity  to  give  offence  in  the  writings 
of  Cervantes. 

The  text  I have  followed  generally  is  Hartzen- 
busch’s.  But  Hartzenbusch,  though  the  most  schol- 
arly of  the  editors  and  commentators  of  “ Don 
Quixote,"  is  not  always  an  absolutely  safe  guide.  His 
text  is  preferable  to  that  of  the  Academy  in  being,  as 
far  as  the  First  Part  is  concerned,  based  upon  the 
first  of  La  Cuesta’s  three  editions,  instead  of  the  third, 
which  the  Academy  took  as  its  basis  on  the  supposi- 
tion (an  erroneous  one,  as  I have  shown  elsewhere) 
that  it  had  been  corrected  by  Cervantes  himself.  His 
emendations  are  frequently  admirable,  and  remove 
difficulties  and  make  rough  places  smooth  in  a man- 
ner that  must  commend  itself  to  every  intelligent 
reader ; but  his  love  and  veneration  for  Cervantes  too 


i6 


INTRO  D UCTION. 


often  get  the  better  of  the  judicious  conservatism  that 
should  be  an  editor’s  guiding  principle  in  dealing 
with  the  text  of  an  old  author.  Notwithstanding  the 
abundant  evidence  before  him  that  Cervantes  was  — 
to  use  no  stronger  word  — a careless  writer,  he  insists 
upon  attributing  every  blunder,  inconsistency,  or  slip- 
shod or  awkward  phrase  to  the  printers.  Cervantes, 
he  argues,  wrote  a hasty  and  somewhat  illegible  hand, 
his  failing  eyesight  made  revision  or  correction  of  his 
manuscript  an  irksome  task  to  him,  and  the  print- 
ers were  consequently  often  driven  to  conjecture. 
He  considers  himself,  therefore,  at  liberty  to  reject 
whatever  jars  upon  his  sense  of  propriety,  and  sub- 
stitute what,  in  his  judgment,  Cervantes  “ must  have 
written.” 

It  is  needless  to  point  out  the  destructive  results 
that  would  follow  the  adoption  of  this  principle  in  set- 
tling the  text  of  old  authors.  In  Hartzenbusch’s  “ Don 
Quixote  ” it  has  led  to  a good  deal  of  unnecessary 
tampering  with  the  text,  and,  in  not  a few  instances, 
to  something  that  is  the  reverse  of  emendation.  He 
is  not,  therefore,  by  any  means  an  editor  to  be  slavishly 
followed,  though  all  who  know  his  editions  will  cor- 
dially acknowledge  his  services,  among  which  may  be 
reckoned  his  judicious  arrangement  of  the  text  into 
paragraphs,  and  the  care  he  has  bestowed  upon  the 
punctuation,  matters  too  much  neglected  by  his  prede- 
cessors. Nor  is  the  valuable  body  of  notes  he  has 
brought  together  the  least  of  them.  In  this  respect 
he  comes  next  to  Clemencin ; but  the  industry  and 


PREFATORY. 


17 


erudition  of  that  indefatigable  commentator  have 
left  comparatively  few  gleanings  for  those  who  come 
after  him. 

To  both,  as  well  as  to  Pellicer,  I have  had  frequent 
recourse,  as  my  own  notes  will  show. 

The  tales  introduced  by  Cervantes  in  the  First  Part 
have  been  printed  in  a smaller  type  ; they  are,  as  he 
himself  freely  admits,  intrusive  matter,  and  if  they  can- 
not be  removed,  they  should  at  least  be  distinguished 
as  wholly  subordinate. 

It  is  needless  to  say  that  the  account  given  in  the 
appendix  of  the  editions  and  translations  of  “ Don 
Quixote  ” does  not  pretend  to  be  a full  bibliography, 
which,  indeed,  would  require  a volume  to  itself.  It  is, 
however,  though  necessarily  an  imperfect  sketch,  fuller 
and  more  accurate,  I think,  than  any  that  has  ap- 
peared, and  it  will,  at  any  rate,  serve  to  show,  better 
than  could  be  shown  by  any  other  means,  how  the 
book  made  its  way  in  the  world,  and  at  the  same 
time  indicate  the  relative  importance  of  the  various 
editions. 

The  account  of  the  chivalry  romances  will  give  the 
reader  some  idea  of  the  extent  and  character  of  the 
literature  that  supplied  Cervantes  with  the  motive  for 
“ Don  Quixote.” 

Proverbs  form  a part  of  the  national  literature  of 
Spain,  and  the  proverbs  of  “Don  Quixote”  have  always 
been  regarded  as  a characteristic  feature  of  the  book. 
They  are,  moreover,  independently  of  their  wit,  humor, 
and  sagacity,  choice  specimens  of  pure  old  Castilian. 


i8 


INTRODUCTION. 


The  reader  will  probably,  therefore,  be  glad  to  have 
them  in  their  original  form,  arranged  alphabetically 
according  to  what  is  of  course  the  only  rational  arrange- 
ment for  proverbs,  that  of  key-words,  and  numbered 
for  convenience  of  reference  in  the  notes. 


CERVANTES. 


19 


CERVANTES. 

Four  generations  had  laughed  over  ‘‘  Don  Quixote  ” 
before  it  occurred  to  any  one  to  ask,  who  and  what 
manner  of  man  was  this  Miguel  de  Cervantes  Saavedra 
whose  name  is  on  tlie  titlepage ; and  it  was  too  late 
for  a satisfactory  answer  to  the  question  when  it  was 
proposed  to  add  a life  of  the  author  to  the  London 
edition  published  at  Lord  Carteret’s  instance  in  1 738. 
All  traces  of  the  personality  of  Cervantes  had  by  that 
time  disappeared.  Any  floating  traditions  that  may 
once  have  existed,  transmitted  from  men  who  had 
known  him,  had  long  since  died  out,  and  of  other  rec- 
ord there  was  none  ; for  the  sixteenth  and  seventeenth 
centuries  were  incurious  as  to  “ the  men  of  the  time,” 
a reproach  against  which  the  nineteenth  has,  at  any 
rate,  secured  itself,  if  it  has  produced  no  Shakespeare 
or  Cervantes.  All  that  Mayans  y Siscar,  to  whom  the 
task  was  intrusted,  or  any  of  those  who  followed  him, 
Rios,  Pellicer,  or  Navarrete,  could  do  was  to  eke  out 
the  few  allusions  Cervantes  makes  to  himself  in  his 
various  prefaces  with  such  pieces  of  documentary  evi- 
dence bearing  upon  his  life  as  they  could  find. 

This,  however,  has  been  done  by  the  last-named 
biographer  to  such  good  purpose  that,  while  he  has 
superseded  all  predecessors,  he  has  left  it  somewhat 
more  than  doubtful  whether  any  successor  will  ever 
supersede  him.  Thoroughness  is  the  chief  character- 
istic of  Navarrete’s  work.  Besides  sifting,  testing,  and 


20 


INTRO  D UC  TION 


methodizing  with  rare  patience  and  judgment  what 
had  been  previously  brought  to  light,  he  left,  as  the 
saying  is,  no  stone  unturned  under  which  any  thing  to 
illustrate  his  subject  might  possibly  be  found,  and  all 
the  research  of  the  sixty-five  years  that  have  elapsed 
since  the  publication  of  his  ‘ Life  of  Cervantes  ’ has 
been  able  to  add  but  little  or  nothing  of  importance 
to  the  mass  of  facts  he  collected  and  put  in  order. 
Navarrete  has  done  all  that  industry  and  acumen 
could  do,  and  it  is  no  fault  of  his  if  he  has  not  given 
us  what  we  want.  What  Hallam  says  of  Shakespeare 
may  be  applied  to  the  almost  parallel  case  of  Cervan- 
tes : “ It  is  not  the  register  of  his  baptism,  or  the  draft 
of  his  will,  or  the  orthography  of  his  name  that  we 
seek ; no  letter  of  his  writing,  no  record  of  his  conver- 
sation, no  character  of  him  drawn  with  any  fulness  by 
a contemporary  has  been  produced.”  By  the  irony  of 
fate  all  or  almost  all  we  know  of  the  greatest  poet  the 
world  has  ever  seen  is  contained  in  documents  the 
most  prosaic  the  art  of  man  can  produce,  and  he  who 
of  all  the  men  that  ever  .lived  soared  highest  above 
this  earth  is  seen  to  us  only  as  a long-headed  man  of 
fljDUsiness,  as  shrewd  and  methodical  in  money  matters 
as  the  veriest  Philistine  among  us.  Of  Cervantes  we 
certainly  know  more  than  we  do  of  Shakespeare,  but 
of  what  we  know  the  greater  part  is  derived  from 
sources  of  the  same  sort,  from  formal  documents  of 
one  kind  or  another.  Here,  however,  the  resemblance 
ends.  In  Shakespeare’s  case  the  documentary  evi- 
dence points  always  to  prosperity  and  success  ; in  the 


CERVANTES. 


21 


case  of  Cervantes  it  tells  of  difficulties,  embarrass- 
ments, or  struggles. 

It  is  only  natural,  therefore,  that  the  biographers  of 
Cervantes,  forced  to  make  brick  without  straw,  should 
have  recourse  largely  to  conjecture,  and  that  conjec- 
ture should  in  some  instances  come  by  degrees  to 
take  the  place  of  established  fact.  All  that  I propose 
to  do  here  is  to  separate  what  is  matter  of  fact  from 
what  is  matter  of  conjecture,  and  leave  it  to  the 
reader’s  judgment  to  decide  whether  the  data  justify 
the  inference  or  not. 

The  men  whose  names  by  common  consent  stand 
in  the  front  rank  of  Spanish  literature,  Cervantes,  Lope 
de  Vega,  Quevedo,  Calderon,  Garcilaso  de  la  Vega, 
the  Mendozas,  Gongora,  were  all  men  of  ancient  fami- 
lies, and,  curiously,  all,  except  the  last,  of  families  that 
traced  their  origin  to  the  same  mountain  district  in 
the  North  of  Spain.  The  family  of  Cervantes  is  com- 
monly said  to  have  been  of  Galician  origin,  and  un- 
questionably it  was  in  possession  of  lands  in  Galicia  at 
a very  early  date ; but  I think  the  balance  of  the  evi- 
dence tends  to  show  that  the  solar,”  the  original  site 
of  the  family,  was  at  Cervatos  in  the  north-west  corner^ 
of  Old  Castile,  close  to  the  junction  of  Castile,  Leon, 
and  the  Asturias.  As  it  happens,  there  is  a complete 
history  of  the  Cervantes  family  from  the  tenth  century 
down  to  the  seventeenth,  extant  under  the  title  of 
“ Illustrious  Ancestry,  Glorious  Deeds,  and  Noble  Pos- 
terity of  the  Famous  Nuno  Alfonso,  Alcaide  of  To- 
ledo,” written  in  1648  by  the  industrious  genealogist 


22 


JNTR  OD  UC  TION. 


Rodrigo  Mendez  Silva,  who  availed  himself  of  a manu- 
script genealogy  by  Juan  de  Mena,  the  poet  laureate 
and  historiographer  of  John  11. 

The  origin  of  the  name  Cervantes  is  curious.  Nuno 
Alfonso  was  almost  as  distinguished  in  the  struggle 
against  the  Moors  in  the  reign  of  Alfonso  VII.  as  the 
Cid  had  been  half  a century  before  in  that  of  Alfonso 
VI.,  and  was  rewarded  by  divers  grants  of  land  in  the 
neighborhood  of  Toledo.  On  one  of  his  acquisitions, 
about  two  leagues  from  the  city,  he  built  himself  a 
castle  which  he  called  Cervatos,  because  — so  Salazar 
de  Mendoza,  in  his  “ Dignidades  de  Castilla”  (i6i8), 
gives  us  to  understand  — he  was  lord  of  the  solar 
of  Cervatos  in  the  Montana,”  as  the  mountain  region 
extending  from  the  Basque  Provinces  to  Leon  was 
always  called.  At  his  death  in  battle  in  1143, 
castle  passed  by  his  will  to  his  son  Alfonso  Munio, 
who,  as  territorial  or  local  surnames  were  then  coming 
into  vogue  in  place  of  the  simple  patronymic,  took 
the  additional  name  of  Cervatos.  His  eldest  son 
Pedro  succeeded  him  in  the  possession  of  the  castle, 
and  followed  his  example  in  adopting  the  name,  an 
assumption  at  which  the  younger  son,  Gonzalo,  seems 
to  have  taken  umbrage. 

Every  one  who  has  paid  even  a flying  visit  to  Toledo 
will  remember  the  ruined  castle  that  crowns  the  hill 
above  the  spot  where  the  bridge  of  Alcantara  spans 
the  gorge  of  the  Tagus,  and  with  its  broken  outline 
and  crumbling  walls  makes  such  an  admirable  pendant 
to  the  square  solid  Alcazar  towering  over  the  city  roofs 


CERVANTES. 


23 


on  the  opposite  side.  It  was  built,  or  as  some  say 
restored,  by  Alfonso  VI.  shortly  after  his  occupation 
of  Toledo  in  1085,  and  called  by  him  San  Servando 
after  a Spanish  martyr,  a name  subsequently  modified 
into  San  Servan  (in  which  form  it  appears  in  the 
“Poem  of  the  Cid”),  San  Servantes,  and  San  Cer- 
vantes : with  regard  to  which  last  the  “ Handbook 
for  Spain  ” warns  its  readers  against  the  supposition 
that  it  has  any  thing  to  do  with  the  author  of  “ Don 
Quixote.”  Ford,  as  all  know  who  have  taken  him 
for  a companion  and  counsellor  on  the  roads  of  Spain, 
is  seldom  wrong  in  matters  of  literature  or  history.  In 
this  instance,  however,  he  is  in  error.  It  has  every 
thing  to  do  with  the  author  of  “ Don  Quixote,”  for  it 
is  in  fact  these  old  walls  that  have  given  to  Spain  the 
name  she  is  proudest  of  to-day.  Gonzalo,  above 
mentioned,  it  may  be  readily  conceived,  did  not  rel- 
ish the  appropriation  by  his  brother  of  a name  to 
which  he  himself  had  an  equal  right,  for  though  nomi- 
nally taken  from  the  castle,  it  was  in  reality  derived 
from  the  ancient  territorial  possession  of  the  family ; 
and  as  a set-off,  and  to  distinguish  himself  (diferen- 
ciarse)  from  his  brother,  he  took  as  a surname  the 
name  of  the  castle  on  the  bank  of  the  Tagus,  in  the 
building  of  which,  according  to  a family  tradition,  his 
great-grandfather  had  a share.  At  the  same  time, 
too,  in  place  of  the  family  arms,  two  stags  (“  cervato  ” 
means  a young  stag)  on  a field  azure,  he  took  two 
hinds  on  a field  vert.  The  story  deserves  notice,  if 
for  no  other  reason,  because  it  disposes  of  Conde’s 


24 


INTRO  D UCTION 


ingenious  theory  that  by  Ben-engeli  ” Cervantes  in- 
tended an  Arabic  translation  of  his  own  name.  Cer- 
vantes was  as  unlikely  a man  as  Scott  to  be  ignorant 
of  his  own  family  history,  or  to  suppose  that  the  name 
he  bore  meant  son  of  the  stag.” 

Both  brothers  founded  families.  The  Cervatos 
branch  flourished  for  a considerable  time,  and  held 
many  high  offices  in  Toledo,  but,  according  to  Salazar 
de  Mendoza,  it  had  become  extinct  and  its  posses- 
sions had  passed  into  other  families  in  i6i8.  The 
Cervantes  branch  had  more  tenacity ; it  sent  offshoots 
in  various  directions,  Andalusia,  Estremadura,  Galicia, 
and  Portugal,  and  produced  a goodly  line  of  men  dis- 
tinguished in  the  service  of  Church  and  State.  Gon- 
zalo  himself,  and  apparently  a son  of  his,  followed 
Ferdinand  III.  in  the  great  campaign  of  1236-48  that 
gave  Gordova  and  Seville  to  Christian  Spain  and 
penned  up  the  Moors  in  the  kingdom  of  Granada, 
and  his  descendants  intermarried  with  some  of  the 
noblest  families  of  the  Peninsula  and  numbered  among 
them  soldiers,  magistrates,  and  Church  dignitaries, 
including  at  least  two  cardinal  archbishops. 

Of  the  line  that  settled  in  Andalusia,  Diego  de  Cer- 
vantes, Commander  of  the  Order  of  Santiago,  married 
Juana  Avellaneda,  daughter  of  Juan  Arias  de  Saavedra, 
and  had  several  sons,  of  whom  one  was  Gonzalo 
Gomez,  Corregidor  of  Jerez  and  ancestor  of  the  Mexi- 
can and  Columbian  branches  of  the  family ; and 
another,  Juan,  whose  son  Rodrigo  married  Doha 
Leonor  de  Cortinas,  and  by  her  had  four  children, 


CERVANTES. 


25 


Rodrigo,  Andrea,  Luisa,  and  Miguel,  the  author  of 
‘‘  Don  Quixote.”  ' It  is  true  that  documentary  evi- 
dence is  wanting  for  the  absolute  identification  of  Juan 
the  Corregidor  of  Osuna,  whom  we  know  to  have  been 


^ Tello  Murielliz  (Rico  Home  of  Castile,  A.D.  988). 
Oveco  Tellez. 

Gonzalo  Ovequiz. 

Aldefonso  Gonzalez. 

Munio  Aldefonso. 

Aldefonso  Munio  (with  Alfonso  VI.  at  Toledo,  1085). 

Nuno  Alfonso  (Alcaide  of  Toledo,  d.  1143). 

I 

Pedro  I I 

Guttierez  = Gimena.  Alfonso  Munio  de  Cervatos. 

, I 


Pedro  Alfonso  Gonzalo  de  Cervantes  (with  Ferdinand  III. 
de  Cervatos.  j at  Seville  in  1248). 

Ferdinand  of  Aragon.  Juan  Alfonso  de  Cervantes  (Commander  of  the 

I Order  of  Calatrava). 


Alonso  Gomez  Tequetiques  de  Cervantes. 

Diego  Gomez  de  Cervantes  (first  to  settle  in  Andalusia). 
^ 


Rui  Gomez  de  Cervantes  Gonzalo  Gomez  de  Cervantes. 

(Prior  of  the  Order  of  San  Juan).  | 

Cardinal  Juan  de  Cervantes  Rodrigo  Diego  Gomez /Prior  of  the\ 
(Archbishop  of  Seville,  1453).  de  Cervantes,  de  Cervantes  ( Order  of  j 
I \ San  Juan.  / 

Juan  de  Cervantes  (Veinticuatro  of  Seville  temp.  John  II.). 

I , 

Diego  de  Cervantes  = Juana  Avellaneda, 

(Commander  of  the  Order  of  Santiago),  j d.  of  Juan  Arias  de  Saavedra, 

Juan  de  Cervantes  (Corregidor  of  Osuna).  Gonzalo  Gomez  de  Cervantes 
j (Corregidor  of  Jerez). 

Rodrigo  de  Cervantes  = Leonor  de  Cortinas. 


Rodrigo,  b.  1543.  Andrea,  b.  1544. 


Luisa,  b.  1546.  Miguel,  b.  1547. 


26 


INTRO  D UCTION 


the  grandfather  of  Cervantes,  with  Juan  the  son  of 
Diego,  but  it  is  not  a question  that  admits  of  any 
reasonable  doubt.  It  is  difficult  to  see  who  else  he 
could  have  been  if  the  date  and  circumstances  of  the 
case  are  taken  into  consideration,  or  how,  unless  he 
was  the  issue  of  the  marriage  with  the  daughter  of 
Juan  de  Saavedra,  his  grandson  could  have  been  Cer- 
vantes Saavedra;  while  his  name  Juan  points  to  his 
having  been  the  son  of  Juana  and  grandson  of  the  two 
Juans,  Cervantes  and  Saavedra.  The  pedigree  of  Cer- 
vantes is  not  without  its  bearing  on  “ Don  Quixote.” 
A man  who  could  look  back  upon  an  ancestry 
of  genuine  knights-errant  extending  from  well-nigh 
the  time  of  Pelayo  to  the  siege  of  Granada  was  likely 
to  have  a strong  feeling  on  the  subject  of  the  sham 
chivalry  of  the  romances.  It  gives  a point,  too,  to 
what  he  says  in  more  than  one  place  about  families 
that  have  once  been  great  and  have  tapered  away  until 
they  have  come  to  nothing,  like  a pyramid.  It  was 
the  case  of  his  own. 

He  was  born  at  Alcala  de  Plenares,  possibly,  as  his 
name  seems  to  suggest,  on  St.  Michael’s  Day,  and  bap- 
tized in  the  church  of  Santa  Maria  Mayor  on  the  9th 
of  October,  1547.  Of  his  boyhood  and  youth  we 
know  nothing,  unless  it  be  from  the  glimpse  he  gives 
us  in  the  preface  to  his  “ Comedies  ” of  himself  as  a 
boy  looking  on  with  delight  while  Lope  de  Rueda  and 
his  company  set  up  their  rude  plank  stage  in  the  plaza 
and  acted  the  rustic  farces  which  he  himself  after- 
wards took  as  the  model  of  his  interludes.  This  first 


CE/^VANTES. 


27 


glimpse,  however,  is  a significant  one,  for  it  shows  the 
early  development  of  that  love  of  the  drama  which 
exercised  such  an  influence  on  his  life  and  seems  to 
have  grown  stronger  as  he  grew  older,  and  of  which 
this  very  preface,  written  only  a few  months  before  his 
death,  is  such  a striking  proof.  He  gives  us  to  under- 
stand, too,  that  he  was  a great  reader  in  his  youth ; 
but  of  this  no  assurance  was  needed,  for  the  First 
Part  of  Don  Quixote  ” alone  proves  a vast  amount 
of  miscellaneous  reading,  romances  of  chivalry,  bal- 
lads, popular  poetry,  chronicles,  for  which  he  had 
no  time  or  opportunity  except  in  the  first  twenty 
years  of  his  life ; and  his  misquotations  and  mis- 
takes in  matters  of  detail  are  always,  it  may  be  no- 
ticed, those  of  a man  recalling  the  reading  of  his 
boyhood. 

Other  things  besides  the  drama  were  in  their  infancy 
when  Cervantes  was  a boy.  The  period  of  his  boy- 
hood was  in  every  way  a transition  period  for  Spain. 
The  old  chivalrous  Spain  had  passed  away.  Its  work 
was  done  when  Granada  surrendered.  The  new  Spain 
was  the  mightiest  power  the  world  had  seen  since  the 
Roman  Empire,  and  it  had  not  yet  been  called  upon 
to  pay  the  price  of  its  greatness.  By  the  policy  of 
Ferdinand  and  Ximenez  the  sovereign  had  been  made 
absolute,  and  the  Church  and  Inquisition  adroitly  ad- 
justed to  keep  him  so.  The  nobles,  who  had  always 
resisted  absolutism  as  strenuously  as  they  had  fought 
the  Moors,  had  been  divested  of  all  political  power, 
a like  fate  had  befallen  the  cities,  the  free  constitutions 


28 


INTROD  UC  TION. 


of  Castile  and  Aragon  had  been  swept  away,  and  the 
only  function  that  remained  to  the  Cortes  was  that  of 
granting  money  at  the  King’s  dictation.  But  the  loss 
of  liberty  was  not  felt  immediately,  for  Charles  V.  was 
like  an  accomplished  horseman  with  a firm  seat  and  a 
light  hand,  who  can  manage  the  steed  without  fretting 
it,  and  make  it  do  his  will  while  he  leaves  its  move- 
ments to  all  appearance  free. 

The  transition  extended  to  literature.  Men  who, 
like  Garcilaso  de  la  Vega  and  Diego  Hurtado  de 
Mendoza,  followed  the  Italian  wars,  had  brought  back 
from  Italy  the  products  of  the  post-Renaissance 
literature,  which  took  root  and  flourished  and  even 
threatened  to  extinguish  the  native  growths.  Damon 
and  Thyrsis,  Phillis  and  Chloe  had  been  fairly  natur- 
alized in  Spain,  together  with  all  the  devices  of  pas- 
toral poetry  for  investing  with  an  air  of  novelty  the 
idea  of  a despairing  shepherd  and  inflexible  shep- 
herdess. Sannazaro’s  ‘‘  Arcadia  ” had  introduced  the 
taste  for  prose  pastorals,  which  soon  bore  fruit  in 
Montemayor’s  “ Diana  ” and  its  successors  ; and  as  for 
the  sonnet,  it  was  spreading  like  the  rabbit  in  Aus- 
tralia. As  a set-off  against  this,  the  old  historical  and 
traditional  ballads,  and  the  true  pastorals,  the  songs 
and  ballads  of  peasant  life,  were  being  collected  assid- 
uously and  printed  in  the  cancioneros  that  succeeded 
one  another  with  increasing  rapidity.  But  the  most 
notable  consequence,  perhaps,  of  the  spread  of  print- 
ing was  the  flood  of  romances  of  chivalry  that  had 
continued  to  pour  from  the  press  ever  since  Garci 


CERVANTES. 


29 


Ordonez  de  Montalvo  had  resuscitated  ‘^Amadis  of 
Gaul”  at  the  beginning  of  the  century. 

For  a youth  fond  of  reading,  solid  or  light,  there 
could  have  been  no  better  spot  in  Spain  than  Alcala 
de  Henares  in  the  middle  of  the  sixteenth  century. 
It  was  then  a busy,  populous  university  town,  some- 
thing more  than  the  enterprising  rival  of  Salamanca, 
and  altogether  a very  different  place  from  the  melan- 
choly, silent,  deserted  Alcala  the  traveller  sees  now 
as  he  goes  from  Madrid  to  Saragossa.  Theology  and 
medicine  may  have  been  the  strong  points  of  the 
university,  but  the  town  itself  seems  to  have  inclined 
rather  to  the  humanities  and  light  literature,  and  as  a 
producer  of  books  Alcala  was  already  beginning  to 
compete  with  the  older  presses  of  Toledo,  Burgos, 
Salamanca,  and  Seville. 

A pendant  to  the  picture  Cervantes  has  given  us 
of  his  first  playgoings  might,  no  doubt,  have  been 
often  seen  in  the  streets  of  Alcala  at  that  time ; a 
bright,  eager,  tawny- haired  boy  peering  into  a book- 
shop where  the  latest  volumes  lay  open  to  tempt  the 
public,  wondering,  it  may  be,  what  that  little  book 
with  the  woodcut  of  the  blind  beggar  and  his  boy, 
that  called  itself  “Vida  de  Lazarillo  de  Tormes, 
segunda  impresion,”  could  be  about;  or  with  eyes 
brimming  over  with  merriment  gazing  at  one  of  those 
preposterous  portraits  of  a knight-errant  in  outrageous 
panoply  and  plumes  with  which  the  publishers  of 
chivalry  romances  loved  to  embellish  the  titlepages 
of  their  folios.  He  had  seen  the  Emperor’s  German 


30 


INTRO  D UCTION. 


litters  many  a time,  but  they  were  slim  pages  in  satin 
compared  with  this.  What  fun  it  would  be  to  see 
such  a figure  come  charging  into  the  plaza  ! How 
he’d  frighten  the  old  women  and  scatter  the  turkeys  ! 
If  the  boy  was  the  father  of  the  man,  the  sense  of  the 
incongruous  that  was  strong  at  fifty  was  lively  at  ten, 
and  some  such  reflections  as  these  may  have  been  the 
true  genesis  of  “ Don  Quixote.” 

For  his  more  solid  education,  we  are  told,  he  went 
to  Salamanca.  But  why  Rodrigo  de  Cervantes,  who 
was  very  poor,  should  have  sent  his  son  to  a university 
a hundred  and  fifty  miles  away  when  he  had  one  at 
his  own  door,  would  be  a puzzle,  if  we  had  any  reason 
for  supposing  that  he  did  so.  The  only  evidence  is  a 
vague  statement  by  Professor  Tomas  Gonzalez,  that 
he  once  saw  an  old  entry  of  the  matriculation  of  a 
Miguel  de  Cervantes.  This  does  not  appear  to  have 
been  ever  seen  again ; but  even  if  it  had,  and  if  the 
date  corresponded,  it  would  prove  nothing,  as  there 
were  at  least  two  other  Miguels  born  about  the  mid- 
dle of  the  century ; one  of  them,  moreover,  a Cer- 
vantes Saavedra,  a cousin,  no  doubt,  who  was  a source 
of  great  embarrassment  to  the  biographers. 

That  he  was  a student  neither  at  Salamanca  nor 
at  Alcala  is  best  proved  by  his  own  works.  No  man 
drew  more  largely  upon  experience  than  he  did,  and 
he  has  nowhere  left  a single  reminiscence  of  student 
life  — for  the  “Tia  Fingida,”  if  it  be  his,  is  not  one  — 
nothing,  not  even  “ a college  joke,”  to  sliow  that  he 
remembered  days  that  most  men  remember  best. 


CEKVANTES. 


3 


All  that  vve  know  positively  about  his  education  is 
that  Juan  Lopez  de  Hoyos,  a professor  of  humanities 
and  belles-lettres  of  some  eminence,  calls  him  his 
dear  and  beloved  pupil.”  This  was  in  a little  col- 
lection of  verses  by  different  hands  on  the  death  of 
Isabel  de  Valois,  second  queen  of  Philip  11. , published 
by  the  professor  in  1569,  to  which  Cervantes  con- 
tributed four  pieces,  including  an  elegy,  and  an  epi- 
taph in  the  form  of  a sonnet.  It  is  only  by  a rare 
chance  that  a ‘‘  Lycidas  ” finds  its  way  into  a volume 
of  this  sort,  and  Cervantes  was  no  Milton.  His 
verses  are  no  worse  than  such  things  usually  are ; so 
much,  at  least,  may  be  said  for  them. 

By  the  time  the  book  appeared  he  had  left  Spain, 
and,  as  fate  ordered  it,  for  twelve  years,  the  most 
eventful  ones  of  his  life.  Giulio,  afterwards  Cardinal, 
Acquaviva  had  been  sent  at  the  end  of  1568  to  Philip 
II.  by  the  Pope  on  a mission,  partly  of  condolence, 
partly  political,  and  on  his  return  to  Rome,  which  was 
somewhat  brusquely  expedited  by  the  King,  he  took 
Cervantes  with  him  as  his  camei'ero  (chamberlain), 
the  office  he  himself  held  in‘  the  Pope’s  household. 
The  post  would  no  doubt  have  led  to  advancement  at 
the  Papal  Court  had  Cervantes  retained  it,  but  in  the 
summer  of  1570  he  resigned  it  and  enlisted  as  a private 
soldier  in  Captain  Diego  de  Urbina’s  company,  belong- 
ing to  Don  Miguel  de  Moncada’s  regiment,  but  at  that 
time  forming  a part  of  the  command  of  Marc  Antony 
Colonna.  What  impelled  him  to  this  step  we  know 
not,  whether  it  was  distaste  for  the  career  before  him. 


32 


INTROD  UCTION. 


or  purely  military  enthusiasm.  It  may  well  have  been 
the  latter,  for  it  was  a stirring  time ; the  events,  how- 
ever, which  led  to  the  alliance  between  Spain,  Venice, 
and  the  Pope,  against  the  common  enemy,  the  Porte, 
and  to  the  victory  of  the  combined  fleets  at  Lepanto, 
belong  rather  to  the  history  of  Europe  than  to  the  life 
of  Cervantes.  He  was  one  of  those  that  sailed  from 
Messina,  in  September  1571,  under  the  command  of 
Don  John  of  Austria ; but  on  the  morning  of  the  7th 
of  October,  when  the  Turkish  fleet  was  sighted,  he 
was  lying  below  ill  with  fever.  At  the  news  that  the 
enemy  was  in  sight  he  rose,  and,  in  spite  of  the 
remonstrances  of  his  comrades  and  superiors,  insisted 
on  taking  his  post,  saying  he  preferred  death  in  the 
service  of  God  and  the  King  to  health.  His  galley, 
the  Marqiiesa,  was  in  the  thick  of  the  fight,  and 
before  it  was  over  he  had  received  three  gunshot 
wounds,  two  in  the  breast  and  one  in  the  left  hand  or 
arm.  On  the  morning  after  the  battle,  according  to 
Navarrete,  he  had  an  interview  with  the  commander- 
in-chief,  Don  John,  who  was  making  a personal  in- 
spection of  the  wounded,  one  result  of  which  was  an 
addition  of  three  crowns  to  his  pay,  and  another, 
apparently,  the  friendship  of  his  general.  Strada  says 
of  Don  John  that  he  knew  personally  every  soldier 
under  his  command,  but  at  any  rate  it  was  as  much 
for  his  friendly  bearing  and  solicitude  for  their  com- 
fort and  well-being  as  for  his  abilities  and  gallantry  in 
the  field  that  he  was  beloved  by  his  men,  and  it  is 
easy  to  conceive  that  he  should  have  taken  a special 


CEKVANTES. 


33 


interest  in  the  case  of  Cervantes,  who,  it  may  be 
observed,  was  exactly  his  own  age,  and  curiously 
enough  — though  it  is  not  very  likely  Don  John  was 
aware  of  the  fact  — his  kinsman  in  a remote  degree, 
inasmuch  as  the  mother  of  Ferdinand  of  Aragon  was 
a descendant  of  Nuho  Alfonso  above  mentioned. 

How  severely  Cervantes  was  wounded  may  be  in- 
ferred from  th^  fact,  that  with  youth,  a vigorous  frame, 
and  as  cheerful  and  buoyant  a temperament  as  ever 
invalid  had,  he  was  seven  months  in  hospital  at  Mes- 
sina before  he  was  discharged.  He  came  out  with 
his  left  hand  permanently  disabled ; he  had  lost  the 
use  of  it,  as  Mercury  told  him  in  the  Viaje  del  Par- 
naso,”  for  the  greater  glory  of  the  right.  This,  how- 
ever, did  not  absolutely  unfit  him  for  service,  and  in 
April  1572  he  joined  Manuel  Ponce  de  Leon’s  com- 
pany of  Lope  de  Figueroa’s  regiment,  in  which,  it 
seems  probable,  his  brother  Rodrigo  was  serving,  and 
shared  in  the  operations  of  the  next  three  years,  in- 
cluding the  capture  of  the  Goletta  and  Tunis.  Tak- 
ing advantage  of  the  lull  which  followed  the  recapture 
of  these  places  by  the  Turks,  he  obtained  leave  to 
return  to  Spain,  and  sailed  from  Naples  in  September 
1575  on  board  the  Sun  galley,  in  company  with  his 
brother  Rodrigo,  Pedro  Carillo  de  Quesada,  late  Gov- 
ernor of  the  Goletta,  and  some  others,  and  furnished 
with  letters  from  Don  John  of  Austria  and  the  Duke 
of  Sesa,  the  Viceroy  of  Sicily,  recommending  him  to 
the  King  for  the  command  of  a company,  on  account 
of  his  services  ; a do7io  infelice  as  events  proved.  On 


34 


INTRODUCTION. 


the  26th  they  fell  in  with  a squadron  of  Algerine 
galleys,  and  after  a stout  resistance  were  overpowered 
and  carried  into  Algiers. 

It  is  not  easy  to  resist  the  temptation  to  linger  over 
the  story  of  Cervantes’  captivity  in  Algiers,  for  in 
truth  a more  wonderful  story  has  seldom  been  told. 
Alexandre  Dumas  could  hardly  have  invented  so  mar- 
vellous a series  of  adventures,  and  certainly  would 
have  hesitated  before  he  asked  even  romance  readers 
to  accept  any  thing  so  improbable.  Nevertheless, 
incredible  as  the  tale  may  seem,  there  is  evidence  for 
every  particular  that  scepticism  itself  will  not  venture 
to  call  in  question.  At  the  distribution  of  the  cap- 
tives, Cervantes  fell  to  the  share  of  one  Ali  or  Dali 
Mami,  the  rais  or  captain  of  one  of  the  galleys,  and  a 
renegade,  as  were  almost  all  embarked  in  the  trade ; 
for  a trade  the  capture  of  Christians  had  now  become, 
as  Cervantes  implies  in  the  title  of  the  “Trato  de 
Argel.”  The  Turks,  to  supply  the  demand  for  rowers, 
dockyard  laborers,  and  the  like,  for  their  great  Medi- 
terranean fleet,  had  long  been  in  the  habit  of  kidnap- 
ping, either  by  making  descents  upon  the  coasts,  or 
seizing  the  crews  of  vessels  at  sea.  Moved  by  the 
sufferings  of  the  unhappy  victims,  noble-minded  men 
of  various  religious  orders  in  Spain  devoted  them- 
selves to  the  work  of  negotiating  the  release  of  as 
many  as  it  was  possible  to  ransom,  acting  as  inter- 
mediaries between  the  captors  and  the  friends  of  the 
captives,  making  up  the  sums  required  out  of  the  funds 
contributed  by  the  charitable,  and  even,  as  Cervantes 


CERVANTES. 


35 


himself  says  in  the  “Trato  de  Argel”  and  the  novel 
of  the  “ Espahola  Inglesa,”  surrendering  themselves  as 
hostages  when  the  money  was  not  immediately  forth- 
coming. It  seems  strange  that  a proud  and  powerful 
nation  should  have  submitted  to  this ; and  stranger 
still  that  Philip  should  have  condescended  to  counte- 
nance negotiations  of  the  sort,  and  formally  recognize 
the  Redemptorist  Fathers  as  his  agents,  when  probably 
a tenth  of  the  force  he  was  employing  to  stamp  out 
heresy  among  his  Flemish  subjects  would  have  sufficed 
to  destroy  the  nest  of  pirates  that  was  the  centre  of 
the  trade.  To  this  pass  had  “ one-man  power  ” al- 
ready brought  Spain  in  the  last  quarter  of  the  six- 
teenth century.  As  is  unhappily  often  the  case  with 
philanthropic  efforts,  the  exertions  of  the  good  Re- 
demptorist Fathers  aggravated  the  evil.  They  sup- 
plied an  additional  motive  for  capturing  Christians  by 
affording  facilities  for  converting  captives  into  cash, 
and  by  making  them  valuable  as  property  added  to 
their  misery. 

By  means  of  a ransomed  fellow-captive  the  brothers 
contrived  to  inform  their  family  of  their  condition, 
and  the  poor  people  at  Alcala  at  once  strove  to  raise 
the  ransom  money,  the  father  disposing  of  all  he 
possessed,  and  the  two  sisters  giving  up  their  marriage 
portions.  But  Dali  Mami  had  found  on  Cervantes 
the  letters  addressed  to  the  King  by  Don  John  and  the 
Duke  of  Sesa,  and,  concluding  that  his  prize  must  be 
a person  of  great  consequence,  when  the  money  came 
he  refused  it  scornfully  as  being  altogether  insufficient. 


36 


INTROD  UCTION. 


The  owner  of  Rodrigo,  however,  was  more  easily 
satisfied ; ransom  was  accepted  in  his  case,  and  it 
was  arranged  between  the  brothers  that  he  should 
return  to  Spain  and  procure  a vessel  in  which  he  was 
to  come  back  to  Algiers  and  take  off  Miguel  and  as 
many  of  their  comrades  as  possible.  This  was  not 
the  first  attempt  to  escape  that  Cervantes  had  made. 
Soon  after  the  commencement  of  his  captivity  he  in- 
duced several  of  his  companions  to  join  him  in  trying 
to  reach  Oran,  then  a Spanish  post,  on  foot ; but 
after  the  first  day’s  journey,  the  Moor  who  had  agreed 
to  act  as  their  guide  deserted  them,  and  they  had  no 
choice  but  to  return.  The  second  attempt  was  more 
disastrous.  In  a garden  outside  the  city  on  the  sea- 
shore, he  constructed,  with  the  help  of  the  gardener, 
a Spaniard,  a hiding-place,  to  which  he  brought,  one 
by  one,  fourteen  of  his  fellow-captives,  keeping  them 
there  in  secrecy  for  several  months,  and  supplying 
them  with  food  through  a renegade  known  as  El 
Dorador,  “ the  Gilder.”  How  he,  a captive  himself, 
contrived  to  do  all  this,  is  one  of  the  mysteries  of  the 
story.  Wild  as  the  project  may  appear,  it  was  very 
nearly  successful.  The  vessel  procured  by  Rodrigo 
made  its  appearance  off  the  coast,  and  under  cover 
of  night  was  proceeding  to  take  off  the  refugees, 
when  the  crew  were  alarmed  by  a passing  fishing  boat, 
and  beat  a hasty  retreat.  On  renewing  the  attempt 
shortly  afterwards,  they,  or  a portion  of  them  at  least, 
were  taken  prisoners,  and  just  as  the  poor  fellows  in 
the  garden  were  exulting  in  the  thought  that  in  a few 


CERVANTES. 


37 


moments  more  freedom  would  be  within  their  grasp, 
they  found  themselves  surrounded  by  Turkish  troops, 
horse  and  foot.  The  Dorador  had  revealed  the  whole 
scheme  to  the  Dey  Hassan. 

When  Cervantes  saw  what  had  befallen  them,  he 
charged  his  companions  to  lay  all  the  blame  upon 
him,  and  as  they  were  being  bound  he  declared  aloud 
that  the  whole  plot  was  of  his  contriving,  and  that 
nobody  else  had  any  share  in  it.  Brought  before  the 
Dey,  he  said  the  same.  He  was  threatened  with 
impalement  and  with  torture ; and  as  cutting  off  ears 
and  noses  were  playful  freaks  with  the  Algerines,  it 
may  be  conceived  what  their  tortures  were  like ; but 
nothing  could  make  him  swerve  from  his  original 
statement  that  he  and  he  alone  was  responsible.  The 
upshot  was  that  the  unhappy  gardener  was  hanged  by 
his  master,  and  the  prisoners  taken  possession  of 
by  the  Dey,  who,  however,  afterwards  restored  most 
of  them  to  their  masters,  but  kept  Cervantes,  paying 
Dali  Mami  500  crowns  for  him.  He  felt,  no  doubt, 
that  a man  of  such  resource,  energy,  and  daring,  was 
too  dangerous  a piece  of  property  to  be  left  in  private 
hands ; and  he  had  him  heavily  ironed  and  lodged  in 
his  own  prison.  If  he  thought  that  by  these  means 
he  could  break  the  spirit  or  shake  the  resolution  of 
his  prisoner,  he  was  soon  undeceived,  for  Cervantes 
contrived  before  long  to  despatch  a letter  to  the 
Governor  of  Oran,  entreating  him  to  send  him  some 
one  that  could  be  trusted,  to  enable  him  and  three 
other  gentlemen,  fellow- captives  of  his,  to  make  their 


38 


INTRODUCTION. 


escape  ; intending  evidently  to  renew  his  first  attempt 
with  a more  trustworthy  guide.  Unfortunately  the 
Moor  who  carried  the  letter  was  stopped  just  outside 
Oran,  and  the  letter  being  found  upon  him,  he  was 
sent  back  to  Algiers,  where  by  the  order  of  the  Dey 
he  was  promptly  impaled  as  a warning  to  others, 
while  Cervantes  was  condemned  to  receive  two  thou- 
sand blows  of  the  stick,  a number  which  most  likely 
would  have  deprived  the  world  of  ‘‘  Don  Quixote,” 
had  not  some  persons,  who  they  were  we  know  not, 
interceded  on  his  behalf. 

After  this  he  seems  to  have  been  kept  in  still  closer 
confinement  than  before,  for  nearly  two  years  passed 
before  he  made  another  attempt.  This  time  his  plan 
was  to  purchase,  by  the  aid  of  a Spanish  renegade 
and  two  Valencian  merchants  resident  in  xA.lgiers,  an 
armed  vessel  in  which  he  and  about  sixty  of  the  lead- 
ing captives  were  to  make  their  escape ; but  just 
as  they  were  about  to  put  it  into  execution,  one 
Doctor  Juan  Blanco  de  Paz,  an  ecclesiastic  and  a 
compatriot,  informed  the  Dey  of  the  plot.  The  Dora- 
dor,  who  had  betrayed  him  on  the  former  occasion, 
was  a poor  creature,  influenced  probably  by  fear  of  the 
consequences,  but  Blanco  de  Paz  was  a scoundrel  of 
deeper  dye.  Cervantes  by  force  of  character,  by  his 
self-devotion,  by  his  untiring  energy  and  his  exertions 
to  lighten  the  lot  of  his  companions  in  misery,  had 
endeared  himself  to  all,  and  become  the  leading- 
spirit  in  the  captive  colony,  and,  incredible  as  it  may 
seem,  jealousy  of  his  influence  and  the  esteem  in 


CERVANTES. 


39 


which  he  was  held,  moved  this  man  to  compass  his 
destruction  by  a cruel  death.  The  merchants,  finding 
that  the  Dey  knew  all,  and  fearing  that  Cervantes 
under  torture  might  make  disclosures  that  would  im- 
peril their  own  lives,  tried  to  persuade  him  to  slip  away 
on  board  a vessel  that  was  on  the  point  of  sailing  for 
Spain ; but  he  told  them  they  had  nothing  to  fear,  for 
no  tortures  would  make  him  compromise  anybody,  and 
he  went  at  once  and  gave  himself  up  to  the  Dey. 

As  before,  the  Dey  tried  to  force  him  to  name  his 
accomplices.  Every  thing  was  made  ready  for  his  im- 
mediate execution ; the  halter  was  put  round  his  neck 
and  his  hands  tied  behind  him,  but  all  that  could  be 
got  from  him  was  that  he  himself,  with  the  help  of 
four  gentlemen  who  had  since  left  Algiers,  had  ar- 
ranged the  whole,  and  that  the  sixty  who  were  to 
accompany  him  were  not  to  know  any  thing  of  it  until 
the  last  moment.  Finding  he  could  make  nothing  of 
him,  the  Dey  sent  him  back  to  prison  more  heavily 
ironed  than  before. 

But  bold  as  these  projects  were,  they  were  surpassed 
in  daring  by  a plot  to  bring  about  a revolt  of  all  the 
Christians  in  Algiers,  twenty  or  twenty-five  thousand 
in  number,  overpower  the  Turks,  and  seize  the  city. 
Of  the  details  of  his  plan  we  know  nothing ; all  we 
know  is  that  at  least  two  of  those  in  his  confidence 
believed  it  would  have  been  successful  had  it  not  been 
for  the  treachery  of  some  persons  in  the  secret ; and 
certain  it  is  that  the  Dey  Hassan  stood  in  awe  of 
Cervantes,  and  used  to  say  that  so  long  as  he  kept  a 


40 


IN  TROD  UC  TION. 


tight  hold  of  the  crippled  Spaniard,  his  captives,  his 
ships,  and  his  city  were  safe.  What  was  it,  then,  that 
made  him  hold  his  hand  in  his  paroxysms  of  rage? 
When  it  was  so  easy  to  relieve  himself  of  all  the 
trouble  and  anxiety  his  prisoner  caused  him,  what  was 
it  that  restrained  him?  It  may  be  said  it  was  the 
admiration  he  felt  at  the  noble  bearing,  dauntless 
courage,  and  self-devotion  of  the  man,  that  made  him 
merciful.  But  is  it  likely  that  the  fiend  Haedo  and 
Cervantes  describe,  who  hanged,  impaled,  and  cut  off 
ears  every  day,  for  the  mere  pleasure  of  doing  it  — 
who  most  likely  had,  like  his  friend  the  Arnaut  Mami, 
“a  house  filled  with  noseless  Christians”  — would 
have  been  influenced  by  any  such  feeling?  There 
are,  we  know,  men  who  seem  to  bear  a charmed  life 
among  savages,  and  to  exercise  some  mysterious  power 
over  the  savage  mind ; but  the  Dey  Hassan  was  no 
savage ; he  was  worse.  With  all  respect  for  the 
Haedos,  uncle  and  nephew,  and  their  chief  informant 
Doctor  de  Sosa,  it  would  be  hard  to  avoid  a suspicion 
that  they  had  exaggerated,  were  it  not  that  the  story 
they  tell  is  confirmed  in  every  particular  by  a formally 
attested  document  discovered  in  1808  by  Cean  Ber- 
mudez, acting  on  a suggestion  of  Navarrete’s,  in  the 
Archive  General  de  Indias  at  Seville. 

The  poverty-stricken  Cervantes  family  had  been  all 
this  time  trying  once  more  to  raise  the  ransom  money, 
and  at  last  a sum  of  three  hundred  ducats  was  got 
together  and  intrusted  to  the  Redemptorist  Father 
Juan  Gil,  who  was  about  to  sail  for  Algiers.  The  Dey, 


CERVANTES. 


41 


however,  demanded  more  than  double  the  sum  offered, 
and  as  his  term  of  office  had  expired  and  he  was 
about  to  sail  for  Constantinople,  taking  all  his  slaves 
with  him,  the  case  of  Cervantes  was  critical.  He  was 
already  on  board  heavily  ironed,  when  the  Dey  at 
length  agreed  to  reduce  his  demand  by  one-half,  and 
Father  Gil  by  borrowing  was  able  to  make  up  the 
amount,  and  on  September  19,  1580,  after  a captivity 
of  five  years  all  but  a week,  Cervantes  was  at  last  set 
free.  Before  long  he  discovered  that  Blanco  de  Paz, 
who  claimed  to  be  an  officer  of  the  Inquisition,  was 
now  concocting  on  false  evidence  a charge  of  miscon- 
duct to  be  brought  against  him  on  his  return  to  Spain. 
To  checkmate  him  Cervantes  drew  up  a series  of 
twenty-five  questions,  covering  the  whole  period  of 
his  captivity,  upon  which  he  requested  Father  Gil  to 
take  the  depositions  of  credible  witnesses  before  a 
notary.  Eleven  witnesses  taken  from  among  the  prin- 
cipal captives  in  Algiers  deposed  to  all  the  facts  above 
stated  (except  of  course  the  intended  seizure  of  the 
city,  which  was  too  compromising  a matter  to  be  re- 
ferred to) , and  to  a great  deal  more  besides.  There 
is  something  touching  in  the  admiration,  love,  and 
gratitude  we  see  struggling  to  find  expression  in  the 
formal  language  of  the  notary,  as  they  testify  one 
after  another  to  the  good  deeds  of  Cervantes,  how  he 
comforted  and  helped  the  weak-hearted,  how  he  kept 
up  their  drooping  courage,  how  he  shared  his  poor 
purse  with  this  deponent,  and  how  ‘‘  in  him  this  de- 
ponent found  father  and  mother.” 


42 


INTRO  D UCTION. 


On  his  return  to  Spain  he  found  his  old  regiment 
about  to  march  for  Portugal  to  support  Philip’s  claim 
to  the  crown,  and  utterly  penniless  now,  had  no  choice 
but  to  rejoin  it.  He  was  in  the  expeditions  to  the 
Azores  in  1582  and  the  following  year,  and  on  the 
conclusion  of  the  war  returned  to  Spain  in  the  autumn 
of  1583,  bringing  with  him  the  manuscript  of  his 
pastoral  romance,  the  “ Galatea,”  and  probably  also, 
to  judge  by  internal  evidence,  that  of  the  first  por- 
tion of  “ Persiles  and  Sigismunda.”  He  also  brought 
back  with  him,  his  biographers  assert,  an  infant 
daughter,  the  offspring  of  an  amour,  as  some  of  them 
with  great  circumstantiality  inform  us,  with  a Lisbon 
lady  of  noble  birth,  whose  name,  however,  as  well  as 
that  of  the  street  she  lived  in,  they  omit  to  mention. 
The  sole  foundation  for  all  this  is  that  in  1605  there 
certainly  was  living  in  the  family  of  Cervantes  a Dona 
Isabel  de  Saavedra,  who  is  described  in  an  official 
document  as  his  natural  daughter,  and  then  twenty 
years  of  age.  This  is  all  we  know  about  her,  unless 
she  is  to  be  identified  with  the  sister  Isabel  who  in 
1614  took  the  veil  in  the  convent  in  which  he  himself 
was  afterwards  buried. 

With  his  crippled  left  hand  promotion  in  the  army 
was  hopeless,  now  that  Don  John  was  dead  and  he 
had  no  one  to  press  his  claims  and  services,  and  for  a 
man  drawing  on  to  forty  life  in  the  ranks  was  a dismal 
prospect ; he  had  already  a certain  reputation  as  a 
poet ; Luis  Galvez  de  Montalvo  had  mentioned  him 
as  a distinguished  one  in  the  “ Pastor  de  Filida  ” in 


CERVANTES. 


43 


1582,  and  we  know  from  Doctor  de  Sosa,  one  of  the 
witnesses  examined  at  Algiers,  that  he  used  to  beguile 
his  imprisonment  with  poetry ; he  made  up  his  mind, 
therefore,  to  cast  his  lot  with  literature,  and  for  a first 
venture  committed  his  “ Galatea  ” to  the  press.  It 
was  published,  as  Salva  y Mallen  shows  conclusively, 
at  Alcala,  his  own  birthplace,  in  1585,  not  at  Madrid 
in  1584  as  his  biographers  and  bibliographers  all  say, 
and  no  doubt  helped  to  make  his  name  more  widely 
known,  but  certainly  did  not  do  him  much  good  in 
any  other  way. 

While  it  was  going  through  the  press,  he  married 
Dona  Catalina  de  Palacios  Salazar  y Vozmediano,  a 
lady  of  Esquivias  near  Madrid,  and  apparently  a friend 
of  the  family,  who  brought  him  a fortune  which  may 
possibly  have  served  to  keep  the  wolf  from  the  door, 
but  if  so,  that  was  all.  The  drama  had  by  this  time 
outgrown  market-place  stages  and  strolling  companies, 
and  with  his  old  love  for  it  he  naturally  turned  to  it 
for  a congenial  employment.  In  about  three  years 
he  wrote  twenty  or  thirty  plays,  which  he  tells  us 
were  performed  without  any  throwing  of  cucumbers 
or  other  missiles,  and  ran  their  course  without  any 
hisses,  outcries,  or  disturbance.  In  other  words,  his 
plays  were  not  bad  enough  to  be  hissed  off  the  stage, 
but  not  good  enough  to  hold  their  own  upon  it.  Only 
two  of  them  have  been  preserv'ed,  but  as  they  happen 
to  be  two  of  the  seven  or  eight  he  mentions  with  com- 
placency, we  may  assume  they  are  favorable  speci- 
mens, and  no  one  who  reads  the  ‘‘Numancia”  and 


44 


INTR  OD  UC  TION. 


the  ‘‘Trato  de  Argel”  will  feel  any  surprise  that  they 
failed  as  acting  dramas.  Whatever  merits  they  may 
have,  whatever  occasional  power  they  may  show,  they 
are,  as  regards  construction,  incurably  clumsy.  How 
completely  they  failed  is  manifest  from  the  fact  that 
with  all  his  sanguine  temperament  and  indomitable 
perseverance  he  was  unable  to  maintain  the  struggle 
to  gain  a livelihood  as  a dramatist  for  more  than  three 
years ; nor  was  the  rising  popularity  of  Lope  the 
cause,  as  is  often  said,  notwithstanding  his  own  words 
to  the  contrary.  When  Lope  began  to  write  for  the 
stage  is  uncertain,  but  it  was  certainly  after  Cervantes 
went  to  Seville. 

This,  according  to  Navarrete,  was  in  1588,  but  the 
“ Nuevos  Documentos  ” published  by  Don  Jose  Asen- 
sio  y Toledo  in  1864  show  that  it  must  have  been 
early  in  1587.  His  first  employment  seems  to  have 
been  under  Diego  de  Valdivia,  a judge  of  the  Audien- 
cia  Real,  but  at  the  beginning  of  1588  he  was  ap- 
pointed one  of  four  deputy  purveyors  under  Antonio 
de  Guevara,  purveyor-general  to  that  “ fleet  of  the 
Indies  ” known  to  history  as  the  Invincible  Armada. 
It  was  no  doubt  an  irksome  and  ill-paid  office,  for  in 
1590  he  addressed  a memorial  to  the  King,  setting 
forth  his  services  and  petitioning  for  an  appointment 
to  one  of  three  or  four  posts  then  vacant  in  the  Span- 
ish possessions  across  the  Atlantic,  an  application 
which,  fortunately  for  the  world,  was  “ referred,”  it 
would  seem,  to  some  official  in  the  Indies  Office  at 
Seville,  and  being  shelved,  so  remained  until  it  was 


CERVANTES. 


45 


discovered  among  the  documents  brought  to  light  by 
Cean  Bermudez. 

Among  the  ‘‘  Nuevos  Documentos  ” printed  by  Sehor 
Asensio  y Toledo  is  one  dated  1592,  and  curiously 
characteristic  of  Cervantes.  It  is  an  agreement  with 
one  Rodrigo  Osorio,  a manager,  who  was  to  accept  six 
comedies  at  fifty  ducats  (about  61.)  apiece,  not  to  be 
paid  in  any  case  unless  it  appeared  on  representation 
that  the  said  comedy  was  one  of  the  best  that  had  ever 
been  represented  in  Spain.  The  test  does  not  seem 
to  have  been  ever  applied  ; perhaps  it  was  sufficiently 
apparent  to  Rodrigo  Osorio  that  the  comedies  were 
not  among  the  best  that  had  ever  been  represented. 
Among  the  correspondence  of  Cervantes  there  might 
have  been  found,  no  doubt,  more  than  one  letter  like 
that  we  see  in  the  “ Rake’s  Progress,”  “ Sir,  I have 
read  your  play,  and  it  will  not  doo.” 

He  was  more  successful  in  a literary  contest  at 
Saragossa  in  1595  in  honor  of  the  canonization  of  St. 
Jacinto,  when  his  composition  won  the  first  prize,  three 
silver  spoons.  The  year  before  this  he  had  been  ap- 
pointed a collector  of  revenues  for  the  kingdom  of 
Granada,  a better  post  probably  than  his  first,  but  cer- 
tainly a more  responsible  one,  as  he  found  in  the  end 
to  his  cost.  In  order  to  remit  the  money  he  had  col- 
lected more  conveniently  to  the  treasury,  he  intrusted 
it  to  a merchant,  who  failed  and  absconded ; and  as 
the  bankrupt’s  assets  were  insufficient  to  cover  the 
whole,  he  was  sent  to  prison  at  Seville  in  September 
1597.  The  balance  against  him,  however,  was  a small 


46 


INTR  O DUG  TION. 


one,  about  26/.,  and  on  giving  security  for  it  he  was 
released  at  the  end  of  the  year. 

It  was  as  he  journeyed  from  town  to  town  collecting 
the  king’s  taxes,  that  he  noted  down  those  bits  of  inn 
and  wayside  life  and  character  that  abound  in  the 
pages  of  “ Don  Quixote  ; ” the  Benedictine  monks 
with  spectacles  and  sunshades,  mounted  on  their  tall 
mules ; the  strollers  in  costume  bound  for  the  next 
village  ; the  barber  with  his  basin  on  his  head,  on  his 
way  to  bleed  a patient ; the  recruit  with  his  breeches 
in  his  bundle,  tramping  along  the  road  singing ; the 
reapers  gathered  in  the  venta  gateway  listening  to 
“ Felixmarte  de  Hircania”  read  out  to  them;  and 
those  little  Hogarthian  touches  that  he  so  well  knew 
how  to  bring  in,  the  ox-tail  hanging  up  with  the  land- 
lord’s comb  stuck  in  it,  the  wine-skins  at  the  bed-head, 
and  those  notable  examples  of  hostelry  art,  Helen 
going  off  in  high  spirits  on  Paris’s  arm,  and  Dido  on 
the  tower  dropping  tears  as  big  as  walnuts.  Nay,  it 
may  well  be  that  on  those  journeys  into  remote  regions 
he  came  across  now  and  then  a specimen  of  the  pauper 
gentleman,  with  his  lean  hack  and  his  greyhound  and 
his  books  of  chivalry,  dreaming  away  his  life  in  happy 
ignorance  that  the  world  had  changed  since  his  great- 
grandfather’s old  helmet  was  new.  But  it  was  in 
Seville  that  he  found  out  his  true  vocation,  though  he 
himself  would  not  by  any  means  have  admitted  it  to 
be  so.  It  was  there,  in  the  Triana,  that  he  was  first 
tempted  to  try  his  hand  at  drawing  from  life,  and 
first  brought  his  humor  into  play  in  the  exquisite  little 


CERVANTES. 


47 


sketch  of  “Rinconete  y Cortadillo,”  the  germ,  in  more 
ways  than  one,  of  “ Don  Quixote.” 

Where  and  when  that  was  written,  we  cannot  tell. 
After  his  imprisonment  all  trace  of  Cervantes  in  his 
official  capacity  disappears,  from  which  it  may  be  in- 
ferred that  he  was  not  reinstated.  That  he  was  still 
in  Seville  in  November  1598  appears  from  a satirical 
sonnet  of  his  on  the  elaborate  catafalque  erected  to 
testify  the  grief  of  the  city  at  the  death  of  Philip  II., 
but  from  this  up  to  1 603  we  have  no  clew  to  his  move- 
ments. The  words  in  the  preface  to  the  First  Part  of 
“ Don  Quixote  ” are  generally  held  to  be  conclusive 
that  he  conceived  the  idea  of  the  book,  and  wrote  the 
beginning  of  it  at  least,  in  a prison,  and  that  he  may 
have  done  so  is  extremely  likely.  At  the  same  time  it 
should  be  borne  in  mind  that  they  contain  no  assertion 
to  that  effect,  and  may  mean  nothing  more  than  that 
this  brain-child  of  his  was  begotten  under  circum- 
stances as  depressing  as  prison  life.  If  we  accept 
them  literally,  the  prison  may  very  well  have  been  that 
in  which  he  was  confined  for  nearly  three  months  at 
Seville. 

The  story  of  his  having  been  imprisoned  afterwards 
at  Argamasilla  de  Alba  rests  entirely  on  local  tradition. 
That  Argamasilla  is  Don  Quixote’s  village  does  not 
admit  of  a doubt.  Even  if  Cervantes  himself  had 
not  owned  it  by  making  the  Academicians  of  Arga- 
masilla write  verses  in  honor  of  Don  Quixote,  there 
is  no  other  town  or  village  in  La  Mancha,  except 
perhaps  its  near  neighbor  Tomelloso,  the  relative  posi- 


48 


INTRODUCTION. 


tion  of  which  to  the  field  of  Montiel,  the  high  road 
to  Seville,  Puerto  Lapice,  and  the  Sierra  Morena, 
agrees  with  the  narrative  ; and  we  know  by  Quevedo’s 
burlesque  ballad  on  Don  Quixote’s  Testament  that  in 
1608  it  was  already  famous  as  Don  Quixote’s  town. 
Also  that  Cervantes  had  a grudge  of  some  kind  against 
the  town  seems  likely  from  his  having  ‘‘  no  desire  to 
call  its  name  to  mind,”  and  from  the  banter  about  the 
Academicians.  It  would  be  uncritical  to  reject  the 
story  absolutely  because  it  depends  on  local  tradition, 
at  the  same  time  it  needs  very  little  insight  into  myth- 
ology to  see  how  easily  the  legend  might  have  grown 
up  under  the  circumstances. 

The  cause  of  the  imprisonment  is  variously  stated. 
It  is  attributed  to  a dispute  about  tithes  due  to  the 
Priory  of  St.  John  which  Cervantes  had  to  collect,  to 
a squabble  about  water  rights,  to  “ a stinging  jest  ” of 
his,  to  a love  affair  with  the  daughter  of  a hidalgo, 
whose  portrait,  with  that  of  his  daughter,  hangs  in 
the  village  church,  and  who  is  conjectured  from  the 
inscription  upon  it  to  have  been  the  original  of  Don 
Quixote.  But  whatever  the  cause,  the  Argamasillans 
are  all  agreed  that  the  prison  was  the  arched  cellar 
under  the  Casa  de  Medrano,  and  the  late  J.  E.  Hartz- 
enbusch  was  so  far  impressed  by  the  tradition  that 
he  had  two  editions  of  ‘‘  Don  Quixote  ” printed  there, 
the  charming  little  Elzevir  edited  by  him  in  1863, 
the  four  volumes  containing  the  novel  in  the  twelve- 
volume  edition  of  Cervantes’  works  completed  in  1865. 

The  books  mentioned  in  chap.  vi.  (e.g.,  the  “ Pastor 


CERVANTES. 


49 


de  Iberia,”  printed  in  1591)  and  the  adventure  of  the 
dead  body  in  chap,  xx.,  which  is  obviously  based  upon 
an  actual  occurrence  that  made  some  noise  in  the 
South  of  Spain  about  the  year  1593,  limit  the  time 
within  which  the  First  Part  can  have  been  written, 
and  it  was  licensed  for  the  press  in  September  1604. 
But  it  is  plain  the  book  had  circulated  in  manuscript 
to  some  extent  before  this,  for  in  the  “ Picara  Justina,” 
which  was  licensed  in  August  1604,  there  are  some 
verses  in  which  Justina  speaks  of  herself  as  more 
famous  than  Don  Quixote,  Celestina,  Lazarillo,  or 
Guzman  de  Alfarache,  so  that  more  than  four  months 
before  it  had  been  printed  we  have  Don  Quixote  ” 
ranked  with  the  three  most  famous  fictions  of  Spain. 
Nor  is  this  all.  In  a letter  which  is  extant,  dated 
August  1604,  Lope  de  Vega  says  that  of  the  rising 
poets  “there  is  not  one  so  bad  as  Cervantes  or  so 
silly  as  to  write  in  praise  of  ^ Don  Quixote ; ’ ” and  in 
another  passage  that  satire  is  “ as  odious  to  him  as 
his  comedies  are  to  Cervantes  ” — evidently  alluding 
to  the  dramatic  criticism  in  chap,  xlviii. 

There  is  a tradition  that  Cervantes  read  some  por- 
tions of  his  work  to  a select  audience  at  the  Duke  of 
Bejar’s,  which  may  have  helped  to  make  the  book 
known ; but  the  obvious  conclusion  is  that  the  First 
Part  of  “ Don  Quixote  ” lay  on  his  hands  some  time 
before  he  could  find  a publisher  bold  enough  to 
undertake  a venture  of  so  novel  a character ; and  so 
little  faith  in  it  had  Francisco  Robles  of  Madrid,  to 
whom  at  last  he  sold  it,  that  he  did  not  care  to  incur 


50 


INTROD  UC  TION. 


the  expense  of  securing  the  copyright  for  Aragon  or 
Portugal,  contenting  himself  with  that  for  Castile. 
The  printing  was  finished  in  December,  and  the  book 
came  out  with  the  new  year,  1605.  It  is  often  said 
that  ‘‘  Don  Quixote  ” was  at  first  received  coldly. 
The  facts  show  just  the  contrary.  No  sooner  was  it 
in  the  hands  of  the  public  than  preparations  were 
made  to  issue  pirated  editions  at  Lisbon  and  Valencia, 
and  to  protect  his  property  Robles  had  to  bring  out 
a second  edition  with  the  additional  copyrights  for 
Aragon  and  Portugal,  which  he  secured  in  February. 
But  two  Lisbon  publishers  were  in  the  field  with  edi- 
tions almost,  if  not  quite,  as  soon  as  he  was,  and  if  he 
lost  the  whole  or  a good  part  of  his  royalties  on  the 
copies  sold  in  Portugal,  no  one,  I imagine,  will  feel 
much  pity  for  him.  He  was  in  time,  however,  to 
secure  his  rights  in  Valencia,  where  in  the  course  of 
the  summer  an  authorized  edition  appeared,  but  not 
two,  as  Salva  y Mallen,  Gallardo,  and  others  say,  for 
the  differences  they  rely  on  are  mere  variations  of 
copies  of  the  same  edition.  There  were,  in  fact,  five 
editions  within  the  year,  and  in  less  than  three  years’ 
time  these  were  exhausted. 

No  doubt  it  was  received  with  something  more  than 
coldness  by  certain  sections  of  the  community.  Men 
of  wit,  taste,  and  discrimination  among  the  aristocracy 
gave  it  a hearty  welcome,  but  the  aristocracy  in  gen- 
eral were  not  likely  to  relish  a book  that  turned  their 
favorite  reading  into  ridicule  and  laughed  at  so  many 
of  their  favorite  ideas,  and  Lope’s  letter  above  quoted 


CE/^VANTES. 


51 


expresses  beyond  a doubt  the  feeling  of  the  literary 
class  with  a few  exceptions.  The  dramatists  who 
gathered  round  Lope  as  their  leader  regarded  Cer- 
vantes as  their  common  enemy,  and  it  is  plain  that  he 
was  equally  obnoxious  to  the  other  clique,  the  ctclto 
poets  who  had  Gongora  for  their  chief.  Navarre te, 
who  knew  nothing  of  the  letter  above  mentioned,  tries 
hard  to  show  that  the  relations  between  Cervantes  and 
Lope  were  of  a very  friendly  sort,  as  indeed  they  were 
until  “ Don  Quixote  ” was  written.  The  first  public 
praise  Lope  ever  got  was  from  Cervantes  in  the  “ Gala- 
tea  ; ” and  when  he  published  his  Dragontea  ” in 
1598  Cervantes  wrote  for  it  a not  ungraceful  sonnet 
upon  that  “ fertile  V ega  that  every  day  offers  us  fresh 
fruits ; ” and  Lope  on  his  part  mentioned  Cervantes 
in  a complimentary  way  in  the  Arcadia.” 

But  Cervantes’  criticism  on  the  drama  of  the  new 
school,  though  in  truth  it  amounts  to  no  more  than 
Lope  himself  admitted  in  1602  in  the  “ New  Art  of 
Comedy  Writing,”  seems  to  have  changed  all  this. 
Cervantes,  indeed,  to  the  last  generously  and  manfully 
declared  his  admiration  of  Lope’s  powers,  his  unfail- 
ing invention,  and  his  marvellous  fertility ; but  in  the 
preface  to  the  First  Part  of  ‘‘  Don  Quixote  ” and  in 
the  verses  of  “Urganda  the  Unknown,”  and  one  or 
two  other  places,  there  are,  if  we  read  between  the 
lines,  sly  hits  at  Lope’s  vanities  and  affectations  that 
argue  no  personal  good-will ; and  Lope  openly  sneers 
at  “ Don  Quixote  ” and  Cervantes,  and  fourteen  years 
after  his  death  gives  him  only  a few  lines  of  cold  com- 


52 


INTROD  UCTION. 


monplace  in  the  Laurel  tie  Apolo,”  that  seem  all  the 
colder  for  the  eulogies  of  a host  of  nonentities  whose 
names  are  found  nowhere  else. 

There  was  little  in  the  First  Part  of  ‘‘Don  Quixote” 
to  give  offence  to  Gongora  and  his  school,  but  no 
doubt  instinct  told  them  that  the  man  who  wrote  it 
was  no  friend  of  theirs  (as  was  abundantly  proved 
when  the  Second  Part  came  out),  and  they  showed 
their  animus  almost  immediately.  There  were  great 
rejoicings  at  Valladolid  in  the  spring  of  1605,  on  the 
occasion  of  the  baptism  of  the  prince,  afterwards 
Philip  IV.,  which  coincided  with  the  arrival  of  Lord 
Howard  of  Effingham  and  a numerous  retinue  to  ratify 
the  treaty  of  peace  between  England  and  Spain,  and 
the  official  “Relacion”  of  the  fete  is  believed  by 
Pellicer,  Navarrete,  Hartzenbusch  and  others  to  have 
been  written  by  Cervantes.  Thereupon  there  appeared 
a sonnet  in  that  bitter  trenchant  style  of  which  Gon- 
gora was  such  a master,  declaring  that  the  sole  object 
of  the  expenditure  and  display  was  to  do  honor  to 
the  heretics  and  Lutherans,  and  taunting  the  authori- 
ties with  having  employed  “ Don  Quixote,  Sancho,  and 
his  ass  ” to  write  an  account  of  their  doings.  In  the 
opinion  of  Don  Pascual  de  Gayangos  (“  Cervantes  en 
Valladolid,”  Madrid,  1884)  the  connection  of  Cer- 
vantes with  the  “ Relacion  ” is  doubtful,  as  it  is  also 
that  Gongora,  to  whom  the  sonnet  is  generally  at- 
tributed, was  really  the  author.  All  that  can  be  said 
is  that  it  is  in  his  manner,  and  that  the  reference  to 
the  heretics  and  Lutherans  is  Gongora  all  over;  if  not 


CERVANTES. 


53 


his  it  comes  from  his  school,  and  shows  the  feeling  ex- 
isting in  that  quarter  towards  Cervantes  and  his  work. 

In  another  piece,  still  more  characteristic,  he  makes 
an  attack  on  Cervantes  which  has  never  been  noticed, 
so  far  as  I am  aware.  In  the  ballad  beginning  “ Cas- 
tillo de  San  Cervantes  ” he  taunts  the  old  castle  on 
the  Tagus,  already  referred  to,  with  being  no  longer 
what  it  was  in  the  days  of  its  youth  when  it  did  such 
gallant  service  against  the  Moors,  compares  its  crum- 
bling battlements  to  an  old  man’s  teeth,  and  bids  it 
look  down  and  see  in  the  stream  below  how  age  has 
changed  it.  Depping,  who  inserts  the  ballad  in  his 
“ Romancero,”  admits  that  the  idea  is  poetical,  but 
confesses  he  cannot  see  the  drift  of  the  poet,  who 
seems  to  him  to  be  here  rather  a preacher  than  a poet ; 
and  no  doubt  others  have  shared  his  perplexity.  It 
was  evidently  a recognized  gibe  to  compare  Cervantes 
to  the  ruined  castle  that  bore  his  name ; Avellaneda, 
in  the  scurrilous  preface  to  his  continuation  of  “ Don 
Quixote,”  jeers  at  him,  in  precisely  the  same  strain  as 
the  ballad,  for  having  grown  as  old,  and  being  as  much 
the  worse  for  time  as  the  castle  of  San  Cervantes. 
Gongora,  it  may  be  observed,  had  a special  gift  of 
writing  pretty,  innocent-looking  verses  charged  with 
venom.  Who  would  take  the  lines  to  a mountain 
brook,  beginning  — 

Whither  away,  my  little  river, 

Why  leap  down  so  eagerly, 

Thou  to  be  lost  in  the  Guadalquivir, 

The  Guadalquivir  in  the  sea  ? 


54 


INTROD  UCTION. 


as  guileless  apparently  as  a lyrical  ballad  of  Words- 
worth’s, to  be  in  reality  a bitter  satire  on  the  unlucky 
upstart,  Rodrigo  Calderon? 

Another  reason  for  the  enmity  of  Gongora  and  his 
clique  to  Cervantes  may  well  have  been  that  their 
arch-enemy  Quevedo  was  a friend  of  his.  Cervantes, 
indeed,  expressly  declares  his  esteem  for  Quevedo  as 
‘Uhe  scourge  of  silly  poets.”  It  is  a pity  that  we 
know  so  little  of  the  relations  of  these  two  men  to 
one  another.  Quevedo  nowhere  mentions  Cervantes 
personally,  though  he  shows  himself  to  have  been  an 
appreciative  reader  of  “ Don  Quixote,”  and  Cervantes 
only  twice  mentions  Quevedo.  But  each  time  there 
is  something  in  his  words  that  suggests  a close  per- 
sonal intimacy.  Thus,  in  the  “Viaje  del  Parnaso,” 
when  Mercury  proposes  to  wait  for  Quevedo,  Cer- 
vantes says  he  “ takes  such  short  steps  that  he  will  be 
a whole  age  coming ; ” a remark  which  has  puzzled  a 
good  many  readers.  The  fact  is  that  Quevedo  had 
clubbed  feet,  but,  so  far  from  being  sensitive  about 
the  deformity,  made  it  a matter  of  joke.  Cervantes, 
however,  could  not  feel  sure  that  he  would  relish  a 
joke  on  the  subject  from  another,  had  he  not  been 
intimate  with  him,  and  we  know  he  held  with  the 
proverb,  “Jests  that  give  pain  are  no  jests.” 

Quevedo  seems  to  have  been  the  only  one  among 
the  younger  men,  except  perhaps  Juan  de  Jauregui, 
with  whom  Cervantes  had  any  friendship,  and  even 
among  the  men  of  his  own  generation  his  personal 
friendships  appear  to  have  been  but  few.  And  yet, 


CERVANTES. 


55 


SO  far  as  the  few  glimpses  we  get  allow  us  to  judge, 
Cervantes  must  have  been  one  of  the  most  lovable 
men  this  world  has  ever  seen.  The  depositions  of 
the  witnesses  at  Algiers,  given  by  Navarrete,  show  his 
power  of  winning  the  love  of  his  fellow-men.  He 
was  a stanch  and  loyal  friend  himself,  one  that  could 
see  no  fault  in  a friend,  and  never  missed  a chance  of 
saying  a kindly  word  when  he  thought  he  could  give 
pleasure  to  a friend.  He  bore  his  hard  lot  with  sweet 
serenity  and  noble  patience,  facing  adversity  as  he 
had  faced  death  with  high  courage  and  dauntless 
spirit ; and  surely  those  two  fancy  portraits  Hartzen- 
busch  has  prefixed  to  his  editions  are  libellous  repre- 
sentations. The  features  of  Cervantes  never  wore 
that  expression  of  agonized  despair.  We  may  rely 
upon  it  that  it  was  with  the  “ smooth  untroubled  fore- 
head and  bright  cheerful  eyes  ” of  his  own  half-playful 
description  that  he  met  adverse  fortune. 

In  i6oi  Valladolid  was  made  the  seat  of  the  Court, 
and  at  the  beginning  of  1603  Cervantes  had  been 
summoned  thither  in  connection  with  the  balance  due 
by  him  to  the  Treasury,  which  was  still  outstanding. 
In  what  way  the  matter  was  settled  we  know  not,  but  we 
hear  no  more  of  it.  He  remained  at  Valladolid,  ap- 
parently supporting  himself  by  agencies  and  scrivener’s 
work  of  some  sort;  probably  draughting  petitions 
and  drawing  up  statements  of  claims  to  be  presented 
to  the  Council,  and  the  like.  So,  at  least,  we  gather 
from  the  depositions  taken  on  the  occasion  of  the 
death  of  a gentleman,  the  victim  of  a street  brawl, 


56 


INTROD  UCTION. 


who  had  been  carried  into  the  house  in  which  he 
lived.  In  these  he  himself  is  described  as  a man  who 
wrote  and  transacted  business,  and  it  appears  that  his 
household  then  consisted  of  his  wife,  the  natural 
daughter  Isabel  de  Saavedra  already  mentioned,  his 
sister  Andrea,  now  a widow,  her  daughter  Costanza, 
a mysterious  Magdalena  de  Sotomayor  calling  herself 
his  sister,  for  whom  his  biographers  cannot  account, 
and  a servant-maid. 

From  another  document  it  would  seem  that  the 
women  found  employment  in  needlework  for  persons 
in  attendance  on  the  Court,  and  the  presumption  is, 
therefore,  that  when  the  Court  was  removed  once 
more  to  Madrid  in  1606,  Cervantes  and  his  household 
followed  it ; but  we  have  no  evidence  of  his  being  in 
Madrid  before  1609,  when  he  was  living  in  the  Calle 
de  la  Magdalena,  a street  running  from  the  Calle  de 
Atocha  to  the  Calle  de  Toledo. 

Meanwhile  Don  Quixote  ” had  been  growing  in 
favor,  and  its  author’s  name  was  now  known  beyond 
the  Pyrenees.  In  1607  an  edition  was  printed  at 
Brussels.  Robles,  the  Madrid  publisher,  found  it  ne- 
cessary to  meet  the  demand  by  a third  edition,  the 
seventh  in  all,  in  1608.  The  popularity  of  the  book 
in  Italy  was  such  that  a Milan  bookseller  was  led  to 
bring  out  an  edition  in  1610  ; and  another  was  called 
for  in  Brussels  in  1611.  It  seemed  as  if  the  hope  in 
the  motto  of  Juan  de  la  Cuesta’s  device  on  his  title- 
page  * was  at  last  about  to  be  realized ; and  it  might 


Post  tenebras  spero  lucem.”  V.  fac-simile  on  title-page. 


CERVANTES. 


57 


naturally  have  been  expected  that,  with  such  proofs 
before  him  that  he  had  hit  the  taste  of  the  public, 
Cervantes  would  have  at  once  set  about  redeeming 
his  rather  vague  promise  of  a second  volume. 

But,  to  all  appearance,  nothing  was  farther  from  his 
thoughts.  He  had  still  by  him  one  or  two  short  tales 
of  the  same  vintage  as  those  he  had  inserted  in  “ Don 
Quixote  ” — “ Rinconete  y Cortadillo,”  above  men- 
tioned, the  “ Amante  Liberal,”  a story  like  that  of 
the  “ Captive,”  inspired  by  his  own  experiences,  and 
perhaps  the  “ Celoso  Estremeho  ” — and  instead  of 
continuing  the  adventures  of  Don  Quixote,  he  set  to 
work  to  write  more  of  these  “ novelas  exemplares,” 
as  he  afterwards  called  them,  with  a view  to  making 
a book  of  them.  Possibly  the  ‘‘  Ilustre  Fregona  ” 
and  the  “ Fuerza  de  la  Sangre  ” were  not  written  quite 
so  late,  but  internal  evidence  shows  beyond  a doubt 
that  the  others,  the  “ Gitanilla,”  the  “ Fspahola  In- 
glesa,”'the  “ Licenciado  Vidriero,”  the  “Dos  Don- 
cellas,”  the  “ Senora  Cornelia,”  the  “ Casamiento 
Fngahoso,”  and  the  “ Coloquio  de  los  Perros  ” were 
all  written  between  1606  and  1612. 

Whether  the  “Tia  Fingida,”  which  is  now  generally 
included  in  his  novels,  is  the  work  of  Cervantes  or 
not,  must  be  left  an  open  question.  No  one  who  has 
read  it  in  the  original  would  willingly  accept  it,  but 
disrelish  is  no  reason  for  summarily  rejecting  it,  and 
it  cannot  be  denied  that  the  style  closely  resembles 
his.  There  is  nothing  in  the  objection  that  “ usted  ” 
is  never  used  by  Cervantes  for  “ vuestra  merced,”  for 


58 


INTRODUCTION. 


its  employment  in  the  tale  may  be  due  to  the  tran- 
scriber or  printer ; and  of  the  two  MSS.  in  existence 
one  at  leasts  though  certainly  not  in  the  handwriting, 
is  of  the  time  of  Cervantes,  in  the  opinion  of  so  good 
a judge  as  Sehor  Fernandez-Guerra  y Orbe.  The 
novels  were  published  in  the  summer  of  1613,  with  a 
dedication  to  the  Conde  de  Lemos,  the  Maecenas  of 
the  day,  and  with  one  of  those  chatty  confidential 
prefaces  Cervantes  was  so  fond  of.  In  this,  eight 
years  and  a half  after  the  First  Part  of  “ Don  Quixote  ” 
had  appeared,  we  get  the  first  hint  of  a forthcoming 
Second  Part.  You  shall  see  shortly,”  he  says,  the 
further  exploits  of  Don  Quixote  and  humors  of 
Sancho  Panza.”  His  idea  of  “ shortly  ” was  a some- 
what elastic  one,  for,  as  we  know  by  the  date  to 
Sancho’s  letter,  he  had  barely  one-half  of  the  book 
completed  that  time  twelvemonth. 

The  fact  was  that,  to  use  a popular  phrase,  he  had 
many  irons  in  the  fire.”  There  was  the  Second  Part 
of  his  “Galatea”  to  be  written,  his  “ Persiles  ” to  be 
finished,  he  had  on  his  hands  his  “Semanas  del  Jardin” 
and  his  “ Bernardo,”  of  the  nature  of  which  we  know 
nothing,  and  there  was  the  “ Viaje  del  Parnaso  ” to  be 
got  ready  for  the  press.  The  last,  now  made  accessi- 
ble to  English  readers  by  the  admirable  translation 
of  Mr.  James  Y.  Gibson,  had  been,  in  part  at  least, 
written  about  three  years  before  the  novels  were 
printed.  Its  motive  was  the  commission  given  by  the 
Conde  de  Lemos,  on  his  appointment  as  Viceroy  of 
Naples,  to  the  brothers  Argensola  to  select  poets  to 


CERVANTES. 


59 


grace  his  court,  which  suggested  to  Cervantes  the 
idea  of  a struggle  for  Parnassus  between  the  good  and 
bad  poets ; and  as  he  worked  it  out  he  passed  in 
review  every  poet  and  poetaster  in  Spain.  But  it  is 
what  he  says  about  himself  in  it,  and  in  the  prose 
appendix  to  it,  “ the  Adjunta,”  that  gives  it  its  chief 
value  and  interest  now,  and  from  no  other  source  do 
we  learn  so  much  about  him  and  his  writings,  and  his 
own  estimate  of  them. 

But  more  than  poems,  or  pastorals,  or  novels,  it  was 
his  dramatic  ambition  that  engrossed  his  thoughts. 
The  same  indomitable  spirit  that  kept  him  from  de- 
spair in  the  bagnios  of  Algiers,  and  prompted  him  to 
attempt  the  escape  of  himself  and  his  comrades  again 
and  again,  made  him  persevere  in  spite  of  failure  and 
discouragement  in  his  efforts  to  win  the  ear  of  the 
public  as  a dramatist.  The  temperament  of  Cervantes 
was  essentially  sanguine.  The  portrait  he  draws  in 
the  preface  to  the  novels,  with  the  aquiline  features, 
chestnut  hair,  smooth  untroubled  forehead,  and  bright 
cheerful  eyes,  is  the  very  portrait  of  a sanguine  man. 
Nothing  that  the  managers  might  say  could  persuade 
him  that  the  merits  of  his  plays  would  not  be  recog- 
nized at  last  if  they  were  only  given  a fair  chance.  In 
the  famous  forty-eighth  chapter  of  “ Don  Quixote,”  in 
the  Adjunta  to  the  ‘‘  Viaje  del  Parnaso,”  in  the  preface 
to  his  comedies,  and  other  places,  he  shows  plainly 
enough  the  ambition  that  lay  next  his  heart.  The  old 
soldier  of  the  Spanish  Salamis  was  bent  on  being  the 
jjEschylus  of  Spain.  He  was  to  found  a great  national 


6o 


INTRODUCTION. 


drama,  based  on  the  true  principles  of  art,  that  was  to 
be  the  envy  of  all  nations ; he  was  to  drive  from  the 
stage  the  silly,  childish  plays,  the  “ mirrors  of  nonsense 
and  models  of  folly”  that  were  in  vogue  through  the 
cupidity  of  the  managers  and  short-sightedness  of  the 
authors;  he  was  to  correct  and  educate  the  public 
taste  until  it  was  ripe  for  tragedies  on  the  model  of  the 
Greek  drama  — like  the  ‘^Numancia”  for  instance  — 
and  comedies  that  would  not  only  amuse  but  improve 
and  instruct.  All  this  he  was  to  do,  could  he  once  get 
a hearing  : there  was  the  initial  difficulty. 

He  shows  plainly  enough,  too,  that  ‘‘  Don  Quixote  ” 
and  the  demolition  of  the  chivalry  romances  was  not 
the  work  that  lay  next  his  heart.  He  was,  indeed,  as 
he  says  himself  in  his  preface,  more  a stepfather  than 
a father  to  “ Don  Quixote.”  Never  was  great  work  so 
neglected  by  its  author.  That  it  was  written  carelessly, 
hastily,  and  by  fits  and  starts,  was  not  always  his  fault, 
but  it  seems  clear  he  never  read  what  he  sent  to  the 
press.  He  knew  how  the  printers  had  blundered,  but 
he  never  took  the  trouble  to  correct  them  when  the 
third  edition  was  in  progress,  as  a man  who  really 
cared  for  the  child  of  his  brain  would  have  done.  He 
appears  to  have  regarded  the  book  as  little  more  than 
a mere  libro  de  entretenimiento,”  an  amusing  book, 
a thing,  as  he  says  in  the  “Viaje,”  “to  divert  the 
melancholy  moody  heart  at  any  time  or  season.”  No 
doubt  he  had  an  affection  for  his  hero,  and  was  very 
proud  of  Sancho  Panza.  It  would  have  been  strange 
indeed  if  he  had  not  been  proud  of  the  most  humor- 


CERVANTES. 


6i 


ous  creation  in  all  fiction.  He  was  proud,  too,  of  the 
popularity  and  success  of  the  book,  and  beyond  meas- 
ure delightful  is  the  naivete  with  which  he  shows  his 
pride  in  a dozen  passages  in  the  Second  Part.  But  it 
was  not  the  success  he  coveted.  In  all  probability  he 
would  have  given  all  the  success  of  ‘‘  Don  Quixote,” 
nay,  would  have  seen  every  copy  of  “ Don  Quixote  ” 
burned  in  the  Plaza  Mayor,  for  one  such  success  as 
Lope  de  Vega  was  enjoying  on  an  average  once  a 
week. 

And  so  he  went  on,  dawdling  over  “ Don  Quixote,” 
adding  a chapter  now  and  again,  and  putting  it  aside 
to  turn  to  “ Persiles  and  Sigismunda”  — which,  as  we 
know,  was  to  be  the  most  entertaining  book  in  the 
language,  and  the  rival  of  “Theagenes  and  Chariclea” 
— or  finishing  off  one  of  his  darling  comedies  ; and  if 
Robles  asked  when  “ Don  Quixote  ” would  be  ready, 
the  answer  no  doubt  was  ^‘con  brevedad”  — shortly, 
there  was  time  enough  for  that.  At  sixty-eight  he  was 
as  full  of  life  and  hope  and  plans  for  the  future  as  a 
boy  of  eighteen. 

Nemesis  was  coming,  however.  He  had  got  as  far 
as  chapter  lix.,  which  at  his  leisurely  pace  he  could 
hardly  have  reached  before  October  or  November 
1614,  when  there  was  put  into  his  hand  a small  octavo 
lately  printed  at  Tarragona,  and  calling  itself  ‘‘  Second 
Volume  of  the  Ingenious  Gentleman  Don  Quixote  of 
La  Mancha : by  the  Licentiate  Alonso  Fernandez  de 
Avellaneda  of  Tordesillas.”  The  last  half  of  chapter 
lix.  and  most  of  the  following  chapters  of  the  Second 


62 


INTROD  UCTION. 


Part  give  us  some  idea  of  the  effect  produced  upon 
him,  and  his  irritation  was  not  likely  to  be  lessened  by 
the  reflection  that  he  had  no  one  to  blame  but  himself. 
Had  Avellaneda,  in  fact,  been  content  with  merely 
bringing  out  a continuation  to  “ Don  Quixote,”  Cer- 
vantes would  have  had  no  reasonable  grievance.  His 
own  intentions  were  expressed  in  the  very  vaguest  lan- 
guage at  the  end  of  the  book ; nay,  in  his  last  words, 
“ forse  altri  cantera  con  miglior  plettro,”  he  seems 
actually  to  invite  some  one  else  to  continue  the  work, 
and  he  made  no  sign  until  eight  years  and  a half  had 
gone  by ; by  which  time  Avellaneda’s  volume  was  no 
doubt  written. 

In  fact  Cervantes  had  no  case,  or  a very  bad  one, 
as  far  as  the  mere  continuation  was  concerned.  But 
Avellaneda  chose  to  write  a preface  to  it,  full  of  such 
coarse  personal  abuse  as  only  an  ill-conditioned  man 
could  pour  out.  He  taunts  Cervantes  with  being  old, 
with  having  lost  his  hand,  with  having  been  in  prison, 
with  being  poor,  with  being  friendless,  accuses  him  of 
envy  of  Lope’s  success,  of  petulance  and  querulous- 
ness, and  so  on ; and  it  was  in  this  that  the  sting  lay. 
Avellaneda’s  reason  for  this  personal  attack  is  obvious 
enough.  Whoever  he  may  have  been,  it  is  clear  that 
he  was  one  of  the  dramatists  of  Lope’s  school,  for  he 
has  the  impudence  to  charge  Cervantes  with  attacking 
him  as  well  as  Lope  in  his  criticism  on  the  drama. 
H is  identification  has  exercised  the  best  critics  and 
baffled  all  the  ingenuity  and  research  that  has  been 
brought  to  bear  on  it.  Navarrete  and  Ticknor  both 


CERVANTES. 


63 


incline  to  the  belief  that  Cervantes  knew  who  he  was ; 
but  I must  say  I think  the  anger  he  shows  suggests  an 
invisible  assailant ; it  is  like  the  irritation  of  a man 
stung  by  a mosquito  in  the  dark.  Cervantes  from  cer- 
tain solecisms  of  language  pronounces  him  to  be  an 
Aragonese,  and  Pellicer,  an  Aragonese  himself,  sup- 
ports this  view  and  believes  him,  moreover,  to  have 
been  an  ecclesiastic,  a Dominican  probably.  It  has 
been  suggested  that  he  was  Luis  de  Aliaga,  the  King’s 
confessor ; Andres  Perez,  the  author  of  the  ‘‘  Picara 
Justina;  ” Bartolome  de  Argensola,  the  poet ; Cervan- 
tes’ old  enemy  Blanco  de  Paz ; Alarcon,  the  drama- 
tist ; even  the  great  Lope  himself ; but  the  wildest 
surmise  of  all  was  that  of  the  late  Rawdon  Brown, 
who  put  in  a claim  for  the  German  scholar  Caspar 
Scoppe,  or  Scioppius,  apparently  because  he  was  quar- 
relsome and  happened  to  be  in  Spain  about  this  time. 

Neither  the  question  nor  the  book  would  ever  have 
been  heard  of  outside  the  circle  of  bookworms  had 
Cervantes  only  behaved  as  Aleman  did  when  his  con- 
tinuation of  “ Guzman  de  Alfarache  ” was  forestalled 
by  Juan  Marti.  But  the  persistence  and  the  vehe- 
mence of  his  invective  sent  readers  to  the  book  who 
would  otherwise  never  have  troubled  themselves  about 
it.  In  its  own  day  it  fell  dead  from  the  press,  for  the 
second  edition  in  1615  mentioned  by  Ebert  is  purely 
imaginary.  But  Bias  de  Nasarre,  an  early  specimen 
of  a type  of  litterateur  now  common,  saw  in  Cervan- 
tes’ vituperation  a sufficient  reason  for  taking  the  book 
up  and  proving  it  meritorious ; and  this  he  did  in  an 


64 


INTROD  UC  TWN. 


edition  in  1732,  in  which  he  showed  that  it  was  on 
the  whole  a superior  work  to  the  genuine  “ Don 
Quixote.”  The  originality  of  this  view  — not  that  it 
was  original,  for  Le  Sage  had  said  much  the  same  — 
so  charmed  M.  Germond  de  Lavigne  that  he  produced 
in  1853  a French  translation  with  a preface  and  notes, 
wherein  he  not  only  maintained  that  in  humor,  taste, 
invention,  and  truth  to  nature,  Cervantes  was  surpassed 
by  Avellaneda ; but  pointed  out  several  passages  to 
prove  that  he  had  borrowed  ideas  from  a book  that 
most  likely  did  not  exist  at  the  time,  and  that  most 
certainly  he  had  not  seen  or  heard  of.  All  this  of 
course  is  intelligible,  but  not  so  that  a sound  Spanish 
scholar  and  critic  like  the  late  Vicente  Salva  should 
have  said,  that  if  Cervantes’  “ Don  Quixote  ” wer^ 
not  in  existence  Avellaneda’s  would  be  the  best  novel 
in  the  language  ; which  (not  to  speak  of  the  absurdity 
of  putting  it  before  “ Lazarillo  de  Tormes,”  “ Guzman 
de  Alfarache,”  Quevedo’s  “Gran  Tacano,”  Isla’s  “Fray 
Gerundio  de  Campazas  ”)  is  like  saying  that  if  there 
were  no  sun,  the  moon  would  be  the  brightest  body 
in  the  heavens.  Any  merit  Avellaneda  has  is  reflected 
from  Cervantes,  and  he  is  too  dull  to  reflect  much. 
“ Dull  and  dirty  ” will  always  be,  I imagine,  the  ver- 
dict of  the  vast  majority  of  unprejudiced  readers. 
He  is,  at  best,  a poor  plagiarist ; all  he  can  do  is  to 
follow  slavishly  the  lead  given  him  by  Cervantes ; his 
only  humor  lies  in  making  Don  Quixote  take  inns  for 
castles  and  fancy  himself  some  legendary  or  historical 
personage,  and  Sancho  mistake  words,  invert  proverbs, 


CEI^VAJVTES, 


65 


and  display  his  gluttony ; all  through  he  shows  a pro- 
clivity to  coarseness  and  dirt,  and  he  has  contrived  to 
introduce  two  tales  filthier  than  any  thing  by  the  six- 
teenth century  novcllicri  and  without  their  sprightli- 
ness ; tales  that  even  Le  Sage  and  M.  de  Lavigne  did 
not  dare  to  reproduce  as  they  found  them. 

But  whatever  Avellaneda  and  his  book  may  be,  we 
must  not  forget  the  debt  we  owe  them.  But  for  them, 
there  can  be  no  doubt,  ‘‘  Don  Quixote  ” would  have 
come  to  us  a mere  torso  instead  of  a complete  work. 
Even  if  Cervantes  had  finished  the  volume  he  had  in 
hand,  most  assuredly  he  would  have  left  off  with  a 
promise  of  a Third  Part,  giving  the  further  adventures 
of  Don  Quixote  and  humors  of  Sancho  Panza  as  shep- 
herds. It  is  plain  that  he  had  at  one  time  an  inten- 
tion of  dealing  with  the  pastoral  romances  as  he  had 
dealt  with  the  books  of  chivalry,  and  but  for  Avel- 
laneda he  would  have  tried  to  carry  it  out.  But  it  is 
more  likely  that,  with  his  plans,  and  projects,  and 
hopefulness,  the  volume  would  have  remained  unfin- 
ished till  his  death,  and  that  we  should  have  never 
made  the  acquaintance  of  the  Duke  and  Duchess,  or 
gone  with  Sancho  to  Barataria. 

From  the  moment  the  book  came  into  his  hands 
he  seems  to  have  been  haunted  by  the  fear  that  there 
might  be  more  Avellanedas  in  the  field,  and  putting 
every  thing  else  aside,  he  set  himself  to  finish  off  his 
task  and  protect  Don  Quixote  in  the  only  way  he 
could,  by  killing  him.  The  conclusion  is  no  doubt  a 
hasty  and  m some  places  clumsy  piece  of  work  — the 


66 


INTRO  D UCTION. 


last  chapter,  indeed,  is  a curiosity  of  slovenly  writing 
— and  the  frequent  repetition  of  the  scoldings  admin- 
istered to  Avellaneda  becomes  in  the  end  rather 
wearisome ; but  it  is,  at  any  rate,  a conclusion,  and 
for  that  we  must  thank  Avellaneda. 

The  new  volume  was  ready  for  the  press  in  Feb- 
ruary, but  was  not  printed  till  the  very  end  of  1615, 
and  during  the  interval  Cervantes  put  together  the 
comedies  and  interludes  he  had  written  within  the 
last  few  years,  and,  as  he  adds  plaintively,  found  no 
demand  for  among  the  managers,  and  published  them 
with  a preface,  worth  the  book  it  introduces  tenfold, 
in  which  he  gives  an  account  of  the  early  Spanish 
stage,  and  of  his  own  attempts  as  a dramatist.  As 
for  the  interludes  i^e7iireineses)  they  are  mere  farcical 
scenes  without  any  pretence  to  a plot,  but  not  without 
a certain  amount  of  life  and  humor.  With  regard  to 
the  comedies,  the  unanimity  of  opinion  is  remarkable. 
Every  one  seems  to  approach  them  with  the  hope  of 
finding  them  not  altogether  unworthy  of  Cervantes, 
not  altogether  the  poor  productions  the  critics  have 
pronounced  them,  and  every  reader  is  compelled  in 
the  end  reluctantly  to  give  them  up,  and  own,  in  the 
words  of  M.  Emile  Chasles,  that  on  se  croirait  a 
mille  lieues  du  bon  sens  viril  qui  ^clatera  dans  ‘ Don 
Quichotte.’  ” Nothing,  perhaps,  gives  a better  idea 
of  their  character  and  quality  than  that  Bias  de 
Nasarre,  who  published  the  second  edition  in  1 749, 
should  have,  in  perfect  seriousness,  advanced  the 
theory  that  Cervantes  wrote  them  with  an  object 


CERVANTES. 


67 


somewhat  similar  to  that  of  Don  Quixote,”  in  fact 
as  burlesques  upon  the  silly  senseless  plays  of  the  day  ; 
and  indeed  had  the  “ Rufian  Dichoso  ” been  written 
forty  years  later  there  would  be  nothing  pi'inia  facie 
absurd  in  supposing  it  a caricature  of  Calderon’s  mys- 
tic devotional  dramas.  It  is  needless  to  say  they 
were  put  forward  by  Cervantes  in  all  good  faith  and 
full  confidence  in  their  merits.  The  reader,  however, 
was  not  to  suppose  they  were  his  last  word  or  final 
effort  in  the  drama,  for  he  had  in  hand  a comedy 
called  “ Engano  a los  ojos,”  about  which,  if  he  mis- 
took not,  there  would  be  no  question. 

Of  this  dramatic  masterpiece  the  world  has  had  no 
opportunity  of  judging ; his  health  had  been  failing 
for  some  time,  and  he  died,  apparently  of  dropsy,  on 
the  23d  of  April,  1616,  the  day  on  which  England 
lost  Shakespeare,  nominally  at  least,  for  the  English 
calendar  had  not  yet  been  reformed. 

He  died  as  he  had  lived,  accepting  his  lot  bravely 
and  cheerfully.  His  dedication  of  the  Persiles  and 
Sigismunda”  to  the  Conde  de  Lemos  is  notable  among 
recorded  death-bed  words  for  its  simple  unaffected 
serenity.  He  could  wish,  he  says,  that  the  opening 
line  of  the  old  ballad  “ One  foot  in  the  stirrup  already” 
did  not  serve  so  aptly  to  begin  his  letter  with  ; they 
had  given  him  the  extreme  unction  the  day  before,  his 
time  was  now  short,  his  pains  were  growing  greater, 
his  hopes  growing  less ; still  he  would  gladly  live  a 
little  longer  to  welcome  his  benefactor  back  to  Spain ; 
but  if  that  might  not  be.  Heaven’s  will  be  done.  And 


68 


INTRO  D UCTION. 


then,  the  ruling  passion  asserting  itself,  he  goes  on  to 
talk  of  his  unfinished  works,  “The  Weeks  of  the  Gar- 
den,” the  famous  “ Bernardo,”  the  conclusion  of  the 
“ Galatea  ” that  his  Excellency  liked  so  much ; all 
which  he  would  complete  should  Heaven  prolong  his 
life,  which  now  could  only  be  by  a miracle. 

Was  it  an  unhappy  life,  that  of  Cervantes?  His 
biographers  all  tell  us  that  it  was ; but  I must  say  I 
doubt  it.  It  was  a hard  life,  a life  of  poverty,  of  in- 
cessant struggle,  of  toil  ill  paid,  of  disappointment,  but 
Cervantes  carried  within  himself  the  antidote  to  all 
these  evils.  His  was  not  one  of  those  light  natures 
that  rise  above  adversity  merely  by  virtue  of  their  own 
buoyancy ; it  was  in  the  fortitude  of  a high  spirit  that 
he  was  proof  against  it.  It  is  impossible  to  conceive 
Cervantes  giving  way  to  despondency  or  prostrated  by 
dejection.  As  for  poverty,  it  was  with  him  a thing 
to  be  laughed  over,  and  the  only  sigh  he  ever  allows  to 
escape  him  is  when  he  says,  “ Happy  he  to  whom 
Heaven  has  given  a piece  of  bread  for  which  he  is  not 
bound  to  give  thanks  to  any  but  Heaven  itself.”  Add 
to  all  this  his  vital  energy  and  mental  activity,  his  rest- 
less invention  and  his  sanguine  temperament,  and  there 
will  be  reason  enough  to  doubt  whether  his  could 
have  been  a very  unhappy  life.  He  who  could  take 
Cervantes’  distresses  together  with  his  apparatus  for 
enduring  them  would  not  make  so  bad  a bargain,  per- 
haps, as  far  as  happiness  in  life  is  concerned. 

It  is  pleasant,  however,  to  think  that  the  sunset  was 
brighter  than  the  day  had  been,  and  that  at  the  close 


CERVANTES. 


69 


of  his  life  he  was  not  left  dependent  on  his  own  high 
courage  for  comfort  and  support.  He  had  failed  in 
the  object  of  his  heart,  but  he  had  the  consolation  of 
knowing  that  if  Spain  had  refused  his  dramas  the 
World  had  welcomed  his  novel.  He  was  still  a poor 
man ; “ a soldier,  a hidalgo,  old  and  poor,”  was  the 
description  given  to  strangers  asking  who  and  what  the 
author  of  “ Don  Quixote”  was.  But  he  was  no  longer 
friendless,  and  he  no  longer  felt  the  pressure  of  poverty 
as  he  had  felt  it  in  the  days  of  his  obscurity.  His 
good  friends,  the  Conde  de  Lemos  and  the  Archbishop 
of  Toledo,  as  he  himself  tells  us,  had  charged  them- 
selves with  his  welfare,  and  the  booksellers  did  not 
look  askance  at  his  books  now.  If  Juan  de  Villaroel 
paid  him  ‘^reasonably,”  as  he  admits,  for  so  unpromis- 
ing a venture  as  the  volume  of  comedies,  we  may  pre- 
sume that  Robles  gave  him  something  substantial  for 
the  novels  and  for  the  Second  Part  of  “Don  Quixote.” 
He  was  able  to  live,  too,  in  what  was  then  a fashion- 
able quarter  of  Madrid,  the  maze  of  dull  streets  lying 
between  the  Carrera  de  San  Geronimo  and  the  Calle 
de  Atocha.  The  house  in  which  he  died  is  in  the 
Calle  del  Leon,  but  the  doorway,  marked  by  a medal- 
lion, is  in  the  Calle  de  Francos,  now  the  Calle  de  Cer- 
vantes, in  which,  a few  doors  farther  down,  the  great 
Lope  lived  and  died,  while  Quevedo  lived  a few  paces 
off  in  the  Calle  del  Nino. 

Of  his  burial-place  nothing  is  known  except  that  he 
was  buried,  in  accordance  with  his  will,  in  the  neigh- 
boring convent  of  Trinitarian  nuns,  of  which  it  is  sup- 


70 


IN  TROD  UC  TION. 


posed  his  daughter,  Isabel  de  Saavedra,  was  an  inmate, 
and  that  a few  years  afterwards  the  nuns  removed  to 
another  convent,  carrying  their  dead  with  them.  But 
whether  the  remains  of  Cervantes  were  included  in  the 
removal  or  not  no  one  knows,  and  the  clew  to  their 
resting-place  is  now  lost  beyond  all  hope.  This  fur- 
nishes perhaps  the  least  defensible  of  the  items  in  the 
charge  of  neglect  brought  against  his  contemporaries. 
In  some  of  the  others  there  is  a good  deal  of  exag- 
geration. To  listen  to  most  of  his  biographers  one 
would  suppose  that  all  Spain  was  in  league  not  only 
against  the  man  but  against  his  memory,  or  at  least 
that  it  was  insensible  to  his  merits,  and  left  him  to  live 
in  misery  and  die  of  want.  To  talk  of  his  hard  life 
and  unworthy  employments  in  Andalusia  is  absurd. 
What  had  he  done  to  distinguish  him  from  thousands 
of  other  struggling  men  earning  a precarious  liveli- 
hood? True,  he  was  a gallant  soldier,  who  had  been 
wounded  and  had  undergone  captivity  and  suffering  in 
his  country’s  cause,  but  there  were  hundreds  of  others 
in  the  same  case.  He  had  written  a mediocre  speci- 
men of  an  insipid  class  of  romance,  and  some  plays 
which  manifestly  did  not  comply  with  the  primary  con- 
dition of  pleasing ; were  the  playgoers  to  patronize 
plays  that  did  not  amuse  them,  because  the  author  was 
to  produce  “ Don  Quixote  ” twenty  years  afterwards? 

The  scramble  for  copies  which,  as  we  have  seen, 
followed  immediately  on  the  appearance  of  the  book, 
does  not  look  like  general  insensibility  to  its  merits. 
No  doubt  it  was  received  coldly  by  some,  but  if  a man 


CERVANTES. 


71 


writes  a book  in  ridicule  of  periwigs  he  must  make  his 
account  with  being  coldly  received  by  the  periwig 
wearers  and  hated  by  the  whole  tribe  of  wig-makers. 
If  Cervantes  had  the  chivalry-romance  readers,  the 
sentimentalists,  the  dramatists,  and  the  poets  of  the 
period  all  against  him,  it  was  because  “ Don  Quixote  ” 
was  what  it  was ; and  if  the  general  public  did  not 
come  forward  to  make  him  comfortable  for  the  rest  of 
his  days,  it  is  no  more  to  be  charged  with  neglect  and 
ingratitude  than  the  English-speaking  public  that  did 
not  pay  off  Scott’s  liabilities.  It  did  the  best  it  could  ; 
it  read  his  book  and  liked  it  and  bought  it,  and  en- 
couraged the  bookseller  to  pay  him  well  for  others. 

Another  charge  is  that  his  fellow-countrymen  have 
been  so  careless  of  his  memory  that  they  have  allowed 
his  portraits  to  be  lost.  It  is  always  assumed  that 
there  was  once  a portrait  of  him  painted  by  his  friend 
Juan  de  Jauregui,  but  the  words  on  which  the  assump- 
tion rests  prove  nothing  of  the  kind.  They  imply 
nothing  more  than  that  Jauregui  could  or  would  paint 
a portrait  of  him  if  asked  to  do  so.  There  is  even 
less  ground  for  the  supposition  that  Pacheco  ever 
painted  or  drew  his  portrait,  unless  indeed  we  accept 
as  satisfactory  the  arguments  used  by  Don  Jose-Maria 
Asensio  y Toledo  in  support  of  that  inserted  by  him 
in  his  “ Nuevos  Documentos,”  and  reproduced  in  Sir 
W.  Stirling  Maxwell’s  Don  John  of  Austria  ” and 
Mr.  Gibson’s  “Journey  to  Parnassus.”  But  in  truth 
they  amount  to  nothing  more  than  a chain  of  mere 
assumptions.  It  is  an  assumption  that  the  manuscript 


72 


INTRO  D UCTION 


on  which  the  whole  depends  is  a trustworthy  docu- 
ment ; an  assumption  that  the  picture  Sehor  Asensio 
has  fixed  on  is  the  one  the  manuscript  means ; and  an 
assumption  that  the  boatman  he  has  fixed  on  in  the 
picture  is  the  portrait  of  Cervantes. 

On  the  other  hand,  there  is,  among  others,  the  im- 
probability of  Pacheco  painting  a portrait  of  Cervan- 
tes as  a boatman,  with  the  full  use  of  both  hands,  and 
about  five-and-twenty  years  of  age,  Cervantes  being 
thirty-three  at  the  time  of  his  release  at  Algiers  (which 
is  supposed  to  be  the  occasion  represented)  and  at 
least  fifty- four  at  the  time  the  picure  was  painted,  if 
Pacheco  was  the  painter.  It  will  need  a stronger  case 
than  this  to  establish  a vera  effigies  of  Cervantes.*  It 
is  hardly  necessary  to  remind  the  reader  that  the  Span- 
ish Academy  picture  from  which  the  familiar  engraved 
portrait  is  taken  is  now  admitted  on  all  hands  to  be  a 
fabrication,  based  in  all  probability  on  the  fancy  por- 
trait by  Kent  in  Tonson’s  “ Quixote  ” of  1 738. 

It  has  been  also  made  a reproach  to  Spain  that  she 
has  erected  no  monument  to  the  man  she  is  proudest 

^ Senor  Asensio’s  case  may  be  said,  indeed,  to  break  down  in  Iiis  last 
assumption.  Where  Cervantes  was  from  the  end  of  1598  to  the  beginning  of 
1603  we  know  not;  but  all  his  biographers  are  agreed  that  he  did  not  remain 
in  Seville.  But  the  commission  to  paint  the  six  pictures,  of  which  Senor 
Asensio’s  is  one,  was  only  given  to  Vazquez  and  Pacheco  in  1600,  and  no 
doubt  they  took  some  considerable  time  to  paint  Cervantes,  therefore,  could 
not  have  sat  for  the  head  of  the  boatman.  In  the  face  of  this  difficulty,  Senor 
Asensio  assumes  that  Pacheco  painted  it  from  a portrait  previously  taken 
between  1590  and  1597.  But,  granted  that  Pacheco  might  have  made  Cer- 
vantes nearly  thirty  years  younger  in  the  picture,  what  motive  could  he  have 
had  for  representing  him  as  a young  man  of  five  or  six  and  twenty  in  a sketch 
made,  we  are  to  suppose,  as  a memorial  of  his  friend? 


CERVANTES. 


73 


of ; no  monument,  that  is  to  say,  worthy  of  him  ; for 
the  bronze  statue  in  the  little  garden  of  the  Plaza  de 
las  Cortes,  a fair  work  of  art  no  doubt,  and  unexcep- 
tionable had  it  been  set  up  to  the  local  poet  in  the 
market-place  of  some  provincial  town,  is  not  worthy 
of  Cervantes  or  of  Madrid.  But  what  need  has  Cer- 
vantes of  “ such  weak  witness  of  his  name  ; ” or  what 
could  a monument  do  in  his  case  except  testify  to  the 
self-glorification  of  those  who  had  put  it  up?  Si 
monumentum  qttceiis,  circitmspice.  The  nearest  book- 
seller’s shop  will  show  what  bathos  there  would  be  in 
a monument  to  the  author  of  ‘‘  Don  Quixote.” 


74 


INTRO  D UC  TION. 


‘^DON  QUIXOTE r 

Nine  editions  of  the  First  Part  of  “ Don  Quixote  ” 
had,  as  we  have  seen,  already  appeared  before  Cer- 
vantes died,  thirty  thousand  copies  in  all,  according 
to  his  own  estimate,  and  a tenth  was  printed  at  Bar- 
celona the  year  after  his  death.  Of  the  Second  Part, 
five  had  been  published  by  the  middle  of  the  same 
year.  So  large  a number  naturally  supplied  the  de- 
mand for  some  time,  but  by  1634  it  appears  to  have 
been  exhausted ; and  from  that  time  down  to  the 
present  day  the  stream  of  editions  has  continued  to 
flow  rapidly  and  regularly.  The  translations  show  still 
more  clearly  in  what  request  the  book  has  been  from 
the  very  outset.  Shelton’s  seems  to  have  been  made 
as  early  as  1607  or  1608;  Oudin’s,  the  first  French 
one,  in  t6i6;  the  first  German  in  1621,  and  Fran- 
ciosini’s  Italian  version  in  1622  ; so  that  in  seven  years 
from  the  completion  of  the  work  it  had  been  trans- 
lated into  the  four  leading  languages  of  Europe.  How 
translations  and  editions  of  translations  multiplied  as 
time  went  on  will  be  seen  by  a glance  at  the  list  given 
in  the  Appendix,  necessarily  incomplete  as  it  is.  Ex- 
cept the  Bible,  in  fact,  no  book  has  been  so  widely 
diffused  as  “ Don  Quixote.”  The  ‘‘  Imitatio  Christi  ” 
may  have  been  translated  into  as  many  different  lan- 
guages, and  perhaps  Robinson  Crusoe  ” and  the 
“Vicar  of  Wakefield”  into  nearly  as  many,  but  in 
multiplicity  of  translations  and  editions  “ Don  Quixote  ” 
leaves  them  all  far  behind. 


“Z>C>iV  QUIXOTE: 


75 


Still  more  remarkable  is  the  character  of  this  wide 
diffusion.  “ Don  Quixote  ” has  been  thoroughly  nat- 
uralized among  people  whose  ideas  about  knight- 
errantry,  if  they  had  any  at  all,  were  of  the  vaguest, 
who  had  never  seen  or  heard  of  a book  of  chivalry, 
who  could  not  possibly  feel  the  humor  of  the  bur- 
lesque or  sympathize  with  the  author’s  purpose. 
Another  curious  fact  is  that  this,  the  most  cosmo- 
politan book  in  the  world,  is  one  of  the  most  in- 
tensely national.  “ Manon  Lescaut  ” is  not  more 
thoroughly  French,  “ Tom  Jones  ” not  more  English, 
“ Rob  Roy  ” not  more  Scotch,  than  “ Don  Quixote  ” 
is  Spanish,  in  character,  in  ideas,  in  sentiment,  in 
local  color,  in  every  thing.  What,  then,  is  the  secret 
of  this  unparalleled  popularity,  increasing  year  by 
year  for  well-nigh  three  centuries  ? One  explanation, 
no  doubt,  is  that  of  all  the  books  in  the  world,  “ Don 
Quixote  ” is  the  most  catholic.  There  is  something 
in  it  for  every  sort  of  reader,  young  or  old,  sage  or 
simple,  high  or  low.  As  Cervantes  himself  says  with 
a touch  of  pride,  “ It  is  thumbed  and  read  and  got 
by  heart  by  people  of  all  sorts ; the  children  turn  its 
leaves,  the  young  people  read  it,  the  grown  men 
understand  it,  the  old  folk  praise  it.” 

But  it  would  be  idle  to  deny  that  the  ingredient 
which,  more  than  its  humor,  or  its  wisdom,  or  the 
fertility  of  invention  or  knowledge  of  human  nature 
it  displays,  has  insured  its  success  with  the  multitude, 
is  the  vein  of  farce  that  runs  through  it.  It  was  the 
attack  upon  the  sheep,  the  battle  with  the  wine-skins, 


76 


INTRO  D UC  TION. 


Mambrino’s  helmet,  the  balsam  of  Fierabras,  Don 
Quixote  knocked  over  by  the  sails  of  the  windmill, 
Sancho  tossed  in  the  blanket,  the  mishaps  and  mis- 
adventures of  master  and  man,  that  were  originally  the 
great  attraction,  and  perhaps  are  so  still  to  some  ex- 
tent with  the  majority  of  readers.  The  bibliography 
of  the  book  is  a proof  of  this.  There  were  ten  edi- 
tions of  the  First  Part,  but  of  the  Second,  where  the 
humor  is  throughout  much  more  akin  to  comedy  than 
to  farce,  five  only  were  printed.  It  is  plain  that 
“ Don  Quixote  ” was  generally  regarded  at  first,  and 
indeed  in  Spain  for  a long  time,  as  little  more  than 
a queer  droll  book,  full  of  laughable  incidents  and 
absurd  situations,  very  amusing,  but  not  entitled  to 
much  consideration  or  care.  All  the  editions  printed 
in  Spain  from  1637  to  1771,  when  the  famous  printer 
Ibarra  took  it  up,  were  mere  trade  editions,  badly  and 
carelessly  printed  on  vile  paper  and  got  up  in  the 
style  of  chap-books  intended  only  for  popular  use, 
with,  in  most  instances,  uncouth  illustrations  and  clap- 
trap additions  by  the  publisher.  Those  of  Brussels 
and  Antwerp  were  better  in  every  way,  neater  and 
more  careful,  but  still  obviously  books  intended  for  a 
class  of  readers  not  disposed  to  be  critical  or  fastidious 
so  long  as  they  were  amused. 

To  England  belongs  the  credit  of  having  been  the 
\i  first  country  to  recognize  the  right  of  “ Don  Quixote  ” 
to  better  treatment  than  this.  The  London  edition  of 
1738,  commonly  called  Lord  Carteret’s  from  having 
been  suggested  by  him,  was  not  a mere  edition  de 


'^DON  QUIXOTE: 


77 


luxe.  It  produced  Don  Quixote  ” in  becoming 
form  as  regards  paper  and  type,  and  embellished  with 
plates  which,  if  not  particularly  happy  as  illustrations, 
were  at  least  well  intentioned  and  well  executed,  but 
it  also  aimed  at  correctness  of  text,  a matter  to  which 
nobody  except  the  editors  of  the  Valencia  and  Brus- 
sels editions  had  given  even  a passing  thought ; and 
for  a first  attempt  it  was  fairly  successful,  for  though 
some  of  its  emendations  are  inadmissible,  a good 
many  of  them  have  been  adopted  by  all  subsequent 
editors. 

The  example  set  was  soon  followed  in  the  elegant 
duodecimo  editions  with  Coypel’s  plates  published  at 
the  Hague  and  Amsterdam,  and  later  in  those  of 
Ibarra  and  Sancha  in  Spain.  But  the  most  notable 
results  were  the  splendid  edition  in  four  volumes  by 
the  Spanish  Royal  Academy  in  1780,  and  the  Rev. 
John  Bowie’s,  printed  at  London  and  Salisbury  in 
1781.  In  the  former  a praiseworthy  attempt  was 
made  to  produce  an  authoritative  text ; but  unfortu- 
nately the  editors,  under  the  erroneous  impression 
that  Cervantes  had  either  himself  corrected  La  Cuesta’s 
1608  edition  of  the  First  Part,  or  at  least  authorized 
its  corrections,  attached  an  excessive  importance  to 
emendations  which  in  reality  are  entitled  to  no  higher 
respect  than  those  of  any  other  printer.  The  distin- 
guishing feature  of  Bowie’s  edition  is  the  mass  of 
notes,  filling  two  volumes  out  of  the  six.  Bowie’s 
industry,  zeal,  and  erudition  have  made  his  name 
deservedly  venerated  by  all  students  of  “ Don  Qui- 


78 


INTRODUCTION. 


xote ; ” at  the  same  time  it  must  be  owned  that 
the  practical  value  of  his  notes  has  been  somewhat 
overrated.  What  they  illustrate  is  not  so  much  “ Don 
Quixote  ” as  the  annotator’s  extensive  reading.  The 
majority  of  them  are  intended  to  show  the  sources 
among  the  books  of  chivalry  from  which  Cervantes 
took  the  incidents  and  ideas  he  burlesqued,  and  the 
connection  is  very  often  purely  fanciful.  They  ren- 
dered an  important  service,  however,  in  acting  as  a 
stimulus  and  furnishing  a foundation  for  other  com- 
mentaries ; as,  for  example,  Pellicer’s,  which,  though 
it  does  not  contain  a fiftieth  of  the  number  of  notes, 
is  fifty  times  more  valuable  for  any  purpose  of  genuine 
elucidation ; and  Clemencin’s,  that  monument  of  in- 
dustry, research,  and  learning,  which  has  done  more 
than  all  others  put  together  to  throw  light  upon  the 
obscurities  and  clear  away  the  difficulties  of  “ Don 
Quixote.” 

The  zeal  of  publishers,  editors,  and  annotators 
brought  about  a remarkable  change  of  sentiment  with 
regard  to  ‘‘  Don  Quixote.”  A vast  number  of  its 
admirers  began  to  grow  ashamed  of  laughing  over  it. 
It  became  almost  a crime  to  treat  it  as  a humorous 
book.  The  humor  was  not  entirely  denied,  but, 
according  to  the  new  view,  it  was  rated  as  an  alto- 
gether secondary  quality,  a mere  accessory,  nothing 
more  than  the  stalking-horse  under  the  presentation 
of  which  Cervantes  shot  his  philosophy  or  his  satire, 
or  whatever  it  was  he  meant  to  shoot ; for  on  this 
point  opinions  varied.  All  were  agreed,  however, 


'DON  QUIXOTE: 


79 


that  the  object  he  aimed  at  was  not  the  books  of 
chivalry.  He  said  emphatically  in  the  preface  to  the 
First  Part  and  in  the  last  sentence  of  the  Second,  that 
he  had  no  other  object  in  view  than  to  discredit  these 
books,  and  this,  to  advanced  criticism,  made  it  clear 
that  his  object  must  have  been  something  else. 

One  theory  was  that  the  book  was  a kind  of  alle- 
gory, setting  forth  the  eternal  struggle  between  the 
ideal  and  the  real,  between  the  spirit  of  poetry  and 
the  spirit  of  prose ; and  perhaps  German  philosophy 
never  evolved  a more  ungainly  or  unlikely  camel  out  of 
the  depths  of  its  inner  consciousness.  Something 
of  the  antagonism,  no  doubt,  is  to  be  found  in  ‘‘  Don 
Quixote,”  because  it  is  to  be  found  everywhere  in  life, 
and  Cervantes  drew  from  life.  It  is  difficult  to 
imagine  a community  in  which  the  never-ceasing 
game  of  cross  purposes  between  Sancho  Panza  and 
Don  Quixote  would  not  be  recognized  as  true  to 
nature.  In  the  stone  age,  among  the  lake  dwellers, 
among  the  cave  men,  there  were  Don  Quixotes  and 
Sancho  Panzas ; there  must  have  been  the  troglodyte 
who  never  could  see  the  facts  before  his  eyes,  and  the 
troglodyte  who  could  see  nothing  else.  But  to  sup- 
pose Cervantes  deliberately  setting  himself  to  expound 
any  such  idea  in  two  stout  quarto  volumes  is  to  sup- 
pose something  not  only  very  unlike  the  age  in  which 
he  lived,  but  altogether  unlike  Cervantes  himself,  who 
would  have  been  the  first  to  laugh  at  an  attempt  of 
the  sort  made  by  any  one  else. 

Another  idea,  which  apparently  had  a strange  fasci- 


8o 


INTRODUCTION. 


nation  for  some  minds,  was  that  there  are  deep  politi- 
cal meanings  lying  hidden  under  the  drolleries  of  Don 
Quixote.”  This,  indeed,  was  not  altogether  of  modern 
growth.  If  we  believed,  what  nobody  believes  now, 
the  Buscapi^  to  be  genuine,  some  such  notion  would 
seem  to  have  been  current  soon  after  the  appearance 
of  the  book.  At  any  rate  Defoe,  in  the  preface  to 
the  “ Serious  Reflections  of  Robinson  Crusoe,”  tells 
us  that  though  thousands  read  ‘‘  Don  Quixote  ” with- 
out any  suspicion  of  the  fact,  “ those  who  know  the 
meaning  of  it  know  it  to  be  an  emblematic  history  of, 
and  a just  satire  upon,  the  Duke  of  Medina  Sidonia.” 
That  the  “ Duke  of  Lerma  ” was  the  original  of  “ Don 
Quixote  ” was  a favorite  theory  with  others,  who,  we 
must  suppose,  saw  nothing  improbable  in  the  Arch- 
bishop of  Toledo  making  a protege  of  the  man  that 
according  to  them  had  ridiculed  and  satirized  his 
brother.  Other  suggestions  were  that  Cervantes  meant 
Charles  V.,  Philip  II.,  Ignatius  Loyola;  while  those 
who  were  not  prepared  to  go  so  far  as  to  declare  the 
whole  book  to  be  a political  satire,  applied  their  inge- 
nuity to  the  discovery  of  allusions  to  the  events  and 
personages  of  the  day  in  almost  every  incident  of  the 
story.  It  became,  in  short,  a kind  of  pastime  with 
literary  idlers  to  go  a mare’s-nesting  in  “ Don  Quixote  ” 
and  hunt  for  occult  significations  in  the  bill  of  ass- 
colts  delivered  to  Sancho  Panza,  the  decision  on  the 
pack-saddle  and  basin  question,  the  names  and  arms 
of  the  chieftains  in  the  encounter  with  the  sheep,  or 
wherever  the  ordinary  reader  in  his  simplicity  flattered 


^^DON  QUIXOTE: 


8l 


himself  that  the  author’s  drift  was  unmistakable.  In 
fact,  to  believe  these  scholiasts,  Cervantes  was  the 
prince  of  cryptographers,  and  “ Don  Quixote  ” a 
tissue  of  riddles  from  beginning  to  end. 

The  pursuit  has  evidently  attractions  inexplicable 
to  the  uninitiated,  but  perhaps  its  facility  may  have 
something  to  do  with  its  charm,  for  in  truth  nothing 
is  easier  than  to  prove  one’s  self  wiser  than  the  rest 
of  the  world  in  this  way.  All  that  is  necessary  is  to 
assert  dogmatically  that  by  A the  author  means  B, 
and  that  when  he  says  “ black  ” he  means  white.” 
If  some  future  commentator  chooses  to  say  that 
‘‘  Pickwick  ” is  an  “ emblematic  history  ” of  Lord 
Melbourne ; that  Jingle,  with  his  versatility,  audacity, 
and  volubility,  is  meant  for  Lord  Brougham ; Sam 
Weller  for  Sydney  Smith,  the  faithful  joker  of  the 
Whig  party ; and  Mr.  Pickwick’s  mishap  on  the  ice 
for  Lord  Melbourne’s  falling  through  from  insufficient 
support  in  1834;  and  that  he  is  a blockhead  who 
offers  to  believe  otherwise ; who  shall  say  him  nay  ? 
It  will  be  impossible  to  confute  him,  save  by  calling 
up  Charles  Dickens  from  his  grave  in  Westminster 
Abbey. 

According  to  others,  there  are  philosophical  ideas 
of  a startling  kind  to  be  found  in  abundance  in  “ Don 
Quixote  ” by  those  who  choose  to  look  for  them, 
ideas  that  show  Cervantes  to  have  been  far  in  advance 
of  his  time.  The  precise  nature  of  these  ideas  is  in 
general  rather  vaguely  intimated ; though,  to  be  sure, 
in  one  instance  it  is  claimed  for  Cervantes  that  he 


82 


INTRO  D UC  TION 


anticipated  Descartes.  “ Don  Quixote,”  it  will  be 
remembered,  on  awaking  in  the  cave  of  Montesinos 
was  at  first  doubtful  of  his  own  identity,  but  on  feel- 
ing himself  all  over  and  observing  the  collected 
thoughts  that  passed  through  his  mind,”  he  was  con- 
vinced that  he  was  himself  and  not  a phantom,  which, 
it  has  been  urged  plausibly,  was  in  effect  a practical 
application  of  the  Cartesian  Cogito,  ergo  sum.” 
But  for  the  most  part  the  expositors  content  them- 
selves with  the  assertion  that  running  through  “ Don 
Quixote  ” there  is  a vein  of  satire  aimed  at  the 
Church,  dogma,  sacerdotalism,  and  the  Inquisition. 
This,  of  course,  will  at  once  strike  most  people  as 
being  extremely  unlikely.  Cervantes  wrote  at  about 
the  most  active  period  of  the  Inquisition,  and  if  he 
ventured  upon  satire  of  this  sort  he  would  have  been 
in  the  position  of  the  reduced  gentlewoman  who  was 
brought  down  to  selling  tarts  in  the  street  for  a liveli- 
hood, and  who  used  to  say  to  herself  every  time  she 
cried  her  wares,  I hope  to  goodness  nobody  hears 
me.” 

There  is,  moreover,  something  very  characteristic  of 
nineteenth  century  self-conceit  in  the  idea  that  it  was 
reserved  for  our  superior  intelligence  to  see  what  those 
poor  blind  stupid  officers  of  the  Inquisition  could  not 
perceive.  Any  one,  however,  who,  for  instance,  com- 
pares the  original  editions  of  Quevedo’s  “Visions” 
with  the  authorized  Madrid  edition  will  see  that  these 
officials  were  not  so  very  blind,  but  that  on  the  con- 
trary their  eyes  were  marvellously  keen  to  detect  any 


^^DON  QUIXOTE: 


83 


thing  that  had  the  slightest  tincture  of  disrespect  or 
irreverence.  Nay,  “ Don  Quixote”  itself  is  a proof  of 
their  vigilance,  for  three  years  after  the  Second  Part 
had  appeared  they  cut  out  the  Duchess’s  not  very 
heterodox  remark  that  works  of  charity  done  in  a 
lukewarm  way  are  of  no  avail.  It  may  be  said  that 
Sancho’s  observations  upon  the  sham  sambenito  and 
mitre  in  chapter  Ixix.,  Part  II.,  and  Dapple’s  return 
home  adorned  with  them  in  chapter  Ixxiii.,  are  meant 
to  ridicule  the  Inquisition ; but  it  is  plain  the  Inquisi- 
tion itself  did  not  think  so,  and  probably  it  was  as 
good  a judge  as  any  one  nowadays. 

For  one  passage  capable  of  being  tortured  into 
covert  satire  against  any  of  these  things,  there  are  ten 
in  “Don  Quixote”  and  the  novels  that  show  — what, 
indeed,  is  sufficiently  obvious  from  the  little  we  know 
of  his  life  and  character  — that  Cervantes  was  a faith- 
ful son  of  the  Church.  As  to  his  having  been  in  ad- 
vance of  his  age,  the  line  he  took  up  on  the  expulsion 
of  the  Moriscoes  disposes  of  that  assertion.  Had  he 
been  the  far-seeing  philosopher  and  profound  thinker 
the  Cervantists  strive  to  make  him  out,  he  would  have 
looked  with  contempt  and  disgust  upon  an  agitation  as 
stupid  and  childish  as  ever  came  of  priestly  bigotry 
acting  on  popular  fanaticism  and  ignorance ; and  if 
not  moved  by  the  barbarous  cruelty  of  the  measure, 
he  would  have  been  impressed  by  its  mischievous  con- 
sequences to  his  country,  as  all  the  best  statesmen  of 
the  day  were.  No  loyal  reader  of  his  will  believe  for 
a moment  that  his  vigorous  advocacy  of  it  was  under- 


84 


INTRO  D UCTION. 


taken  against  his  convictions  and  solely  in  order  to 
please  his  patron,  the  leader  of  the  movement.  The 
truth  is,  no  doubt,  that  in  the  Archbishop’s  ante- 
chamber he  heard  over  and  over  again  all  the  argu- 
ments he  has  reproduced  in  “ Don  Quixote  ” and  in 
the  novel  of  the  “ Colloquy  of  the  Dogs,”  and  that  his 
opinions,  as  opinions  so  often  do,  took  their  complexion 
from  his  surroundings.  There  is  no  reason  to  question 
his  sincerity,  but  the  less  that  is  said  of  his  philosophy 
and  foresight  the  better.  He  was  a philosopher  in  one 
and  perhaps  the  best  sense,  for  he  knew  how  to  endure 
the  ills  of  life  with  philosophy ; his  knowledge  of 
human  nature  was  profound,  his  observation  was  mar- 
vellous ; but  life  never  seems  to  have  presented  any 
mystery  to  him,  or  suggested  any  problem  to  his  mind. 

It  does  not  require  much  study  of  the  literary  his- 
tory of  the  time,  or  any  profound  critical  examination 
of  the  work,  to  see  that  these  elaborate  theories  and 
ingenious  speculations  are  not  really  necessary  to  ex- 
plain the  meaning  of  “ Don  Quixote  ” or  the  purpose 
of  Cervantes.  The  extraordinary  influence  of  the 
romances  of  chivalry  in  his  day  is  quite  enough  to 
account  for  the  genesis  of  the  book. 

Some  idea  of  the  prodigious  development  of  this 
branch  of  literature  in  the  sixteenth  century  may  be 
obtained  from  the  sketch  given  in  the  Appendix,  if 
the  reader  bears  in  mind  that  only  a portion  of  the 
romances  belonging  to  by  far  the  largest  group  are 
enumerated.  As  to  its  effect  upon  the  nation,  there  is 
abundant  evidence.  From  the  time  when  the  Ama- 


'DON  QUIXOTE: 


85 


discs  and  Palmerins  began  to  grow  popular  down  to 
the  very  end  of  the  century,  there  is  a steady  stream 
of  invective,  from  men  whose  character  and  position 
lend  weight  to  their  words,  against  the  romances  of 
chivalry  and  the  infatuation  of  their  readers.  It  would 
be  easy  to  fill  a couple  of  pages  with  the  complaints 
that  were  made  of  the  mischief  produced  by  the  in- 
ordinate appetite  for  this  kind  of  reading,  especially 
among  the  upper  classes,  who,  unhappily  for  them- 
selves and  their  country,  had  only  too  much  time  for 
such  pursuits  under  the  rule  of  Charles  V.  and  his  suc- 
cessors. As  Pedro  Mexia,  the  chronicler  of  Charles 
V.  puts  it,  there  were  many  who  had  brought  them- 
selves to  think  in  the  very  style  of  the  books  they 
read,  books  of  which  might  often  be  said,  and  with  far 
more  truth,  what  Ascham  said  of  the  “ Morte  d’ Arthur,” 
that  “ the  whole  pleasure  standeth  in  two  speciall 
poyntes,  in  open  manslaughter  and  bold  bawdrye.” 

Ticknor,  in  his  second  volume,  cites  some  of  the 
most  notable  of  these  predecessors  of  Cervantes ; but 
one  not  mentioned  by  him,  or,  so  far  as  I am  aware, 
by  any  other  writer  on  the  subject,  may  be  quoted 
here  as  having  been  perhaps  the  immediate  predeces- 
sor of,  and  using  language  curiously  like  that  in,  Don 
Quixote.  ’ I mean  Fray  Juan  de  Tolosa,  who  says  he 
wrote  his  fantastically  entitled  religious  treatise,  the 
^‘Aranjuez  del  Alma”  (Saragossa,  1589),  in  order  to 
drive  out  of  our  Spain  that  dust-cloud  of  books  of 
chivalries,  as  they  call  them  (of  knaveries,  as  I call 
them),  that  blind  the  eyes  of  all  who,  not  reflecting 


86 


INTRODUCTION. 


upon  the  harm  they  are  doing  their  souls,  give  them- 
selves up  to  them,  and  waste  the  best  part  of  the  year 
in  striving  to  learn  whether  Don  Belianis  of  Greece 
took  the  enchanted  castle,  or  whether  Don  Florisel  de 
Niquea,  after  all  his  battles,  celebrated  the  marriage 
he  was  bent  upon.”  Good  Fray  Juan  did  not  choose 
the  right  implement.  Ridicule  was  the  only  besom  to 
sweep  away  that  dust. 

That  this  was  the  task  Cervantes  set  himself,  and 
that  he  had  ample  provocation  to  urge  him  to  it,  will 
be  sufficiently  clear  to  those  who  look  into  the  evi- 
dence ; as  it  will  be  also  that  it  was  not  chivalry  itself 
that  he  attacked  and  swept  away.  Of  all  the  absurdi- 
ties that,  thanks  to  Poetry,  will  be  repeated  to  the  end 
of  time,  there  is  no  greater  one  than  saying  that  “ Cer- 
vantes smiled  Spain’s  chivalry  away.”  In  the  first 
place  there  was  no  chivalry  for  him  to  smile  away. 
Spain’s  chivalry  had  been  dead  for  more  than  a cen- 
tury. Its  work  was  done  when  Granada  fell,  and  as 
chivalry  was  essentially  republican  in  its  nature,  it 
could  not  live  under  the  rule  that  Ferdinand  substi- 
tuted for  the  free  institutions  of  mediaeval  Spain. 
What  he  did  smile  away  was  not  chivalry  but  a degrad- 
ing mockery  of  it ; it  would  be  just  as  reasonable  to 
say  that  England’s  chivalry  was  smiled  away  by  the 
ridicule  showered  in  “ Punch  ” upon  the  men  in  block- 
tin  who  ride  in  the  Lord  Mayor’s  Show. 

The  true  nature  of  the  ‘Tight  arm”  and  the  “bright 
array,”  before  which,  according  to  the  poet,  “ the 
world  gave  ground,”  and  which  Cervantes’  single  laugh 


'DON  QUIXOTE: 


87 


demolished,  may  be  gathered  from  the  words  of  one 
of  his  own  countrymen,  Don  Felix  Pacheco,  as  re- 
ported by  Captain  George  Carleton,  in  his  “ Military 
Memoirs  from  1672  to  1713.”  ’ ‘‘  Before  the  appear- 

ance in  the  world  of  that  labor  of  Cervantes,”  he  said, 
‘‘  it  was  next  to  an  impossibility  for  a man  to  walk  the 
streets  with  any  delight  or  without  danger.  There 
were  seen  so  many  cavaliers  prancing  and  curvetting 
before  the  windows  of  their  mistresses,  that  a stranger 
would  have  imagined  the  whole  nation  to  have  been 
nothing  less  than  a race  of  knight-errants.  But  after 
the  world  became  a little  acquainted  with  that  notable 
history,  the  man  that  was  seen  in  that  once  celebrated 
drapery  was  pointed  at  as  a Don  Quixote,  and  found 
himself  the  jest  of  high  and  low.  And  I verily  be- 
lieve that  to  this,  and  this  only,  we  owe  that  dampness 
and  poverty  of  spirit  which  has  run  through  all  our 
councils  for  a century  past,  so  little  agreeable  to  those 
nobler  actions  of  our  famous  ancestors.” 

To  call  “ Don  Quixote  ” a sad  book,  preaching  a 
pessimist  view  of  life,  argues  a total  misconception 
of  its  drift.  It  would  be  so  if  its  moral  were  that, 
in  this  world,  true  enthusiasm  naturally  leads  to  ridi- 
cule and  discomfiture.  But  it  preaches  nothing  of 
the  sort ; its  moral,  so  far  as  it  can  be  said  to  have 
one,  is  that  the  spurious  enthusiasm  that  is  born  of 
vanity  and  self-conceit,  that  is  made  an  end  in  itself. 


* This  book,  it  may  be  as  well  to  remind  some  readers,  is  not,  as  it  is  still 
often  described,  one  of  Defoe’s  novels,  but  the  genuine  experiences  of  an 
English  officer  in  Spain  during  the  Succession  War. 


88 


INTRODUCTION, 


not  a means  to  an  end,  and  that  acts  on  mere  impulse, 
regardless  of  circumstances  and  consequences,  is  mis- 
chievous to  its  owner,  and  a very  considerable  nui- 
sance to  the  community  at  large.  To  those  who 
cannot  distinguish  between  the  one  kind  and  the 
other,  no  doubt  “ Don  Quixote  ” is  a sad  book ; no 
doubt  to  some  minds  it  is  very  sad  that  a man  who 
had  just  uttered  so  beautiful  a sentiment  as  that  it 
is  a hard  case  to  make  slaves  of  those  whom  God  and 
Nature  made  free,”  should  be  ungratefully  pelted  by 
the  scoundrels  his  crazy  philanthropy  had  let  loose  on 
society ; but  to  others  of  a more  judicial  cast  it  will 
be  a matter  of  regret  that  reckless  self-sufficient  en- 
thusiasm is  not  oftener  requited  in  some  such  way  for 
all  the  mischief  it  does  in  the  world. 

A very  slight  examination  of  the  structure  of  ‘‘  Don 
Quixote  ” will  suffice  to  show  that  Cervantes  had  no 
deep  design  or  elaborate  plan  in  his  mind  when  he 
began  the  book.  When  he  wrote  those  lines  in  which 
“ with  a few  strokes  of  a great  master  he  sets  before 
us  the  pauper  gentleman,”  he  had  no  idea  of  the  goal 
to  which  his  imagination  was  leading  him.  There 
can  be  little  doubt  that  all  he  contemplated  was  a 
short  tale  to' range  with  those  he  had  already  written  — 
“ Rinconete  and  Cortadillo,”  “The  Generous  Lover,” 
“The  Adventures  of  Cardenio  and  Dorothea,”  the 
“Ill-advised  Curiosity,”  “The  Captive’s  Story”  — a 
tale  setting  forth  the  ludicrous  results  that  might  be 
expected  to  follow  the  attempt  of  a crazy  gentleman 
to  act  the  part  of  a knight-errant  in  modern  life. 


'DON  QUIXOTE r 


89 


It  is  plain,  for  one  thing,  that  Sancho  Panza  did 
not  enter  into  the  original  scheme,  for  had  Cervantes 
thought  of  him  he  certainly  would  not  have  omitted 
him  in  his  hero’s  outfit,  which  he  obviously  meant  to 
be  complete.  Him  we  owe  to  the  landlord’s  chance 
remark  in  chapter  iii.  that  knights  seldom  travelled 
without  squires.  It  is  needless  to  point  out  the  differ- 
ence this  implies.  To  try  to  think  of  a Don  Quixote 
without  Sancho  Panza  is  like  trying  to  think  of  a one- 
bladed  pair  of  scissors. 

The  story  was  written  at  first,  like  the  others,  with- 
out any  division,  as  may  be  seen  by  the  beginnings 
and  endings  of  the  first  balf-dozen  chapters ; and 
without  the  intervention  of  Cid  Hamet  Benengeli ; 
and  it  seems  not  unlikely  that  Cervantes  had  some 
intention  of  bringing  Dulcinea,  or  Aldonza  Lorenzo, 
on  the  scene  in  person.  It  was  probably  the  ran- 
sacking of  the  Don’s  library  and  the  discussion  on  the 
books  of  chivalry  that  first  suggested  it  to. him  that 
his  idea  was  capable  of  development.  What,  if  in- 
stead of  a mere  string  of  farcical  misadventures,  he 
were  to  make  his  tale  a burlesque  of  one  of  these 
books,  caricaturing  their  style,  incidents,  and  spirit? 

In  pursuance  of  this  change  of  plan,  he  hastily  and 
somewhat  clumsily  divided  what  he  had  written  into 
chapters  on  the  model  of  ‘^Amadis,”  invented  the 
fable  of  a mysterious  Arabic  manuscript,  and  set  up 
Cid  Hamet  Benengeli  in  imitation  of  the  almost  inva- 
riable practice  of  the  chivalry-romance  authors,  who 
were  fond  of  tracing  their  books  to  some  recondite 


90 


INTROD  UC  TION. 


source.  In  working  out  the  new  idea,  he  soon  found 
the  value  of  Sancho  Panza.  Indeed,  the  keynote,  not 
only  to  Sancho’s  part,  but  to  the  whole  book,  is 
struck  in  the  first  words  Sancho  utters  when  he 
announces  his  intention  of  taking  his  ass  with  him. 

“ About  the  ass,”  we  are  told,  “ Don  Quixote  hesi- 
tated a little,  trying  whether  he  could  call  to  mind 
any  knight-errant  taking  with  him  an  esquire  mounted 
on  ass-back ; but  no  instance  occurred  to  his  mem- 
ory.” We  can  see  the  whole  scene  at  a glance,  the 
stolid  unconsciousness  of  Sancho  and  the  perplexity 
of  his  master,  upon  whose  perception  the  incongruity 
has  just  forced  itself.  This  is  Sancho’s  mission 
throughout  the  book ; he  is  an  unconscious  Mephis- 
topheles,  always  unwittingly  making  mockery  of  his  \/ 
master’s  aspirations,  always  exposing  the  fallacy  of 
his  ideas  by  some  unintentional  ad  absuj'dum,  always 
bringing  him  back  to  the  world  of  fact  and  common- 
place by  force  of  sheer  stolidity. 

The  burlesque,  it  will  be  observed,  is  not  steadily 
kept  up  even  throughout  the  First  Part.  Cervantes 
seems,  as  in  fact  he  confesses  in  the  person  of  Cid 
Hamet  in  chapter  xliv.  of  the  Second  Part,  to  have 
grown  weary  before  long  of  the  restrictions  it  imposed 
upon  him,  and  to  have  felt  it,  as  he  says  himself, 

‘‘  intolerable  drudgery  to  go  on  writing  on  one  sub- 
ject,” chronicling  the  sayings  and  doings  of  the  same 
two  characters.  It  is  plain  that,  as  is  often  the  case 
with  persons  of  sanguine  temperament,  sustained 
effort  was  irksome  to  him.  For  thirty  years  he  had 


^DON  QUIXOTE: 


91 


contemplated  the  completion  of  the  “Galatea,”  unable 
to  bring  himself  to  set  about  it.  He  had  the  “ Per- 
siles,”  which  he  looked  upon  as  his  best  work  — in 
prose  at  least  — an  equal  length  of  time  on  his  hands. 
The  Second  Part  of  “ Don  Quixote  ” he  wrote  in  a 
very  desultory  fashion,  putting  it  aside  again  and 
again  to  turn  to  something  else.  And  when  he  made 
an  end,  it  was  always  a hasty  one.  Each  part  of 
“ Don  Quixote  ” he  finishes  off  with  a wild  flourish, 
and  seems  to  fling  down  his  pen  with  a “ whoop  ” 
like  a schoolboy  at  the  end  of  a task  he  has  been  kept 
in  for.  Even  the  “ Viaje  del  Parnaso,”  a thing  entered 
upon  and  written  con  amore^  he  ends  abruptly  as  if 
he  had  got  tired  of  it. 

It  was  partly  for  this  reason,  as  he  himself  admits, 
that  he  inserted  the  story  of  “Cardenio  and  Doro- 
thea,” that  with  the  untranslatable  title  which  I have 
ventured  to  call  the  “ Ill-advised  Curiosity,”  and  “The 
Captive’s  Story,”  that  fill  up  the  greater  part  of  the 
last  half  of  the  volume,  as  well  as  the  “ Chrysostom 
and  Marcela  ” episode  in  the  earlier  chapters.  But 
of  course  there  were  other  reasons.  He  had  these 
stories  ready  written,  and  it  seemed  a good  way  of 
disposing  of  them  ; it  is  by  no  means  unlikely  that 
he  mistrusted  his  own  powers  of  extracting  from  Don 
Quixote  and  Sancho  material  enough  to  fill  a book  ; 
but  above  all  it  is  likely  he  felt  doubtful  of  his  ven- 
ture. It  was  an  experiment  in  literature  far  bolder 
than  “ Lazarillo  de  Tormes  ” or  “ Guzman  de  Alfara- 
che ; ” he  could  not  tell  how  it  would  be  received ; 


92 


INTRO  D UCTION 


and  it  was  as  well  therefore  to  provide  his  readers  with 
something  of  the  sort  they  were  used  to,  as  a kind  of 
insurance  against  total  failure. 

The  event  did  not  justify  his  diffidence.  The  pub- 
lic, he  acknowledges,  skimmed  the  tales  hastily  and 
impatiently,  eager  to  return  to  the  adventures  of  Don 
Quixote  and  Sancho ; and  the  public  has  ever  since 
done  much  the  same.  He  himself  owns  that  they  are 
altogether  out  of  place,  and  nothing  but  the  natural 
reluctance  of  editors  and  translators  to  mutilate  a great 
classic  has  preserved  them,  for  in  truth  they  are  not 
only  out  of  place,  but  positive  blemishes.  An  ex- 
ception might  be  made  in  favor  of  the  story  of  the 
Captive,  which  has  an  interest  in  itself  independent 
of  the  autobiographical  touches  it  contains,  and  is  in 
the  main  told  in  a straightforward  soldierly  style. 

But  the  others  have  nothing  to  recommend  them. 
They  are  commonplace  tales  of  intrigue  that  might 
have  been  written  by  any  tenth-rate  story-teller.  With 
a certain  pretence  of  moral  purpose,  the  “ Ill-advised 
Curiosity  ” is  a nauseous  story,  and  the  morality  of 
Dorothea’s  story  is  a degree  worse  than  that  of  Rich- 
ardson’s “Pamela;”  it  is,  in  fact,  a story  of  “easy 
virtue  rewarded.”  The  characters  are  utterly  unin- 
teresting ; the  men,  Cardenio  and  Don  Fernando, 
Anselmo  and  Lothario,  are  a contemptible  set ; and  the 
women  are  remarkable  for  nothing  but  a tendency  to 
swoon  away  on  slight  provocation,  and  to  make  long 
speeches  the  very  adjectives  of  which  would  be  enough 
for  a strong  man.  The  reader  will  observe  the  differ- 


'DON  QUIXOTE: 


93 


ence  between  the  Dorothea  of  the  tale  and  the  grace- 
ful, sprightly,  natural  Dorothea  who  acts  the  part  of  the 
Princess  Micomicona  with  such  genuine  gayety  and  fun. 

But  it  is  in  style  that  these  tales  offend  most  of  all. 
They  are  not  worth  telling,  and  they  are  told  at  three 
times  the  length  that  would  have  been  allowable  if 
they  were.  No  device  known  to  prolixity  is  omitted. 
Verbs  and  adjectives  always  go  in  pairs  like  panniers 
on  a donkey,  as  if  one  must  inevitably  fall  to  the 
ground  without  the  other  to  balance  it.  Nobody  ever 
says  or  sees  any  thing,  he  always  declares  and  asserts 
it,  or  perceives  and  discerns  it.  If  a thing  is  beauti- 
ful it  must  likewise  be  lovely,  and  nothing  can  be 
odious  without  being  detestable  too  ; though  as  a rule 
adjectives  are  seldom  used  but  in  the  superlative  de- 
gree. Every  thing  is  said  with  as  much  circumlocu- 
tion and  rodomontade  as  possible,  as  if  the  lavish 
expenditure  of  words  were  the  great  object.  And 
yet,  following  immediately  up'on  these  tawdry  artifi- 
cial productions,  we  have  the  charming  little  episode 
of  Don  Luis  and  Dona  Clara,  as  if  Cervantes  wished 
to  show  that  when  he  chose  he  could  write  a love 
story  in  a simple,  natural  style. 

The  latter  portion  of  the  First  Part  is,  in  short, 
almost  all  episodes  and  digressions  ; no  sooner  are  the 
tales  disposed  of,  than  we  have  the  long  criticism  on 
the  chivalry  romances  and  the  drama,  interesting  and 
valuable  no  doubt,  but  still  just  as  much  out  of  place, 
and  that  is  followed  by  the  goat-herd’s  somewhat 
pointless  story. 


94 


INTROD  UCTION. 


By  the  time  Cervantes  had  got  his  volume  of  novels 
off  his  hands,  and  summoned  up  resolution  enough  to 
set  about  the  Second  Part  in  earnest,  the  case  was  very 
much  altered.  Don  Quixote  and  Sancho  Panza  had 
not  merely  found  favor,  but  had  already  become,  what 
they  have  never  since  ceased  to  be,  veritable  entities 
to  the  popular  imagination.  There  was  no  occasion 
for  him  now  to  interpolate  extraneous  matter ; nay,  his 
readers  told  him  plainly  that  what  they  wanted  of  him 
was  more  Don  Quixote  and  more  Sancho  Panza,  and 
not  novels,  tales,  or  digressions.  To  himself,  too,  his 
creations  had  become  realities,  and  he  had  become 
proud  of  them,  especially  of  Sancho.  He  began  the 
Second  Part,  therefore,  under  very  different  conditions, 
and  the  difference  makes  itself  manifest  at  once.  Even 
in  translation  the  style  will  be  seen  to  be  far  easier, 
more  flowing,  more  natural,  and  more  like  that  of  a 
man  sure  of  himself  and  of  his  audience.  Don  Qui- 
xote and  Sancho  undergo  a change  also.  In  the  First 
Part,  Don  Quixote  has  no  character  or  individuality 
whatever.  He  is  nothing  more  than  a crazy  represent- 
ative of  the  sentiments  of  the  chivalry  romances.  In 
all  that  he  says  and  does  he  is  simply  repeating  the 
lesson  he  has  learned  from  his  books ; and  therefore, 
as  Hallam  with  perfect  justice  maintains,  it  is  absurd 
to  speak  of  him  in  the  gushing  strain  of  the  senti- 
mental critics  when  they  dilate  upon  his  nobleness, 
disinterestedness,  dauntless  courage,  and  so  forth.  It 
was  the  business  of  a knight-errant  to  right  wrongs, 
redress  injuries,  and  succor  the  distressed,  and  this,  as 


'DON  QUIXOTE: 


95 


a matter  of  course,  he  makes  his  business  when  he 
takes  up  the  part ; a knight-errant  was  bound  to  be 
intrepid,  and  so  he  feels  bound  to  cast  fear  aside.  Of 
all  Byron’s  melodious  nonsense  about  Don  Quixote, 
the  most  nonsensical  statement  is  that  “ ’tis  his  virtue 
makes  him  mad  ! ” The  exact  opposite  is  the  truth  ; 
it  is  his  madness  makes  him  virtuous. 

In  this  respect  he  remains  unchanged  in  the  Second 
Part ; but  at  the  same  time  Cervantes  repeatedly  re- 
minds the  reader,  as  if  it  was  a point  upon  which  he 
was  anxious  there  should  be  no  mistake,  that  his  hero’s 
madness  is  strictly  confined  to  delusions  on  the  subject 
of  chivalry,  and  that  on  every  other  subject  he  is  ‘‘dis- 
crete,” one,  in  fact,  whose  faculty  of  discernment  is  in 
perfect  order.  He  thus  invests  Don  Quixote  with  a 
dignity  which  was  wholly  wanting  to  him  in  the  First 
Part,  and  at  the  same  time  reserves  to  himself  the 
right  of  making  him  speak  and  act  not  only  like  a man 
of  sense,  but  like  a man  of  exceptionally  clear  and 
acute  mind,  whenever  it  may  become  desirable  to 
travel  outside  the  limits  of  the  burlesque.  The  ad- 
vantage of  this  is  that  he  is  enabled  to  make  use  of 
Don  Quixote  as  a mouthpiece  for  his  own  reflections, 
and  so,  without  seeming  to  digress,  allow  himself  the 
relief  of  digression  when  he  requires  it,  as  freely  as  in 
a commonplace  book. 

It  is  true  the  amount  of  individuality  bestowed  upon 
Don  Quixote  is  not  very  great.  There  are  some  natu- 
ral touches  of  character  about  him,  such  as  his  mixture 
of  irascibility  and  placability,  and  his  curious  affection 


96 


INTRO  D UCTION 


for  Sancho  together  with  his  impatience  of  the  squire’s 
loquacity  and  impertinence ; but  in  the  main,  apart 
from  his  craze,  he  is  little  more  than  a thoughtful, 
cultured  gentleman,  with  instinctive  good  taste  and  a 
great  deal  of  shrewdness  and  originality  of  mind. 

As  to  Sancho,  it  is  plain,  from  the  concluding  words 
of  the  preface  to  the  First  Part,  that  he  was  a favorite 
with  his  creator  even  before  he  had  been  taken  into 
favor  by  the  public,  x^n  inferior  genius,  taking  him  in 
hand  a second  time,  would  very  likely  have  tried  to 
improve  him  by  making  him  more  comical,  clever, 
amiable,  or  virtuous.  But  Cervantes  was  too  true  an 
artist  to  spoil  his  work  in  this  way.  Sancho,  when  he 
re-appears,  is  the  old  Sancho  with  the  old  familiar 
features ; but  with  a difference ; they  have  been 
brought  out  more  distinctly,  but  at  the  same  time  with 
a careful  avoidance  of  any  thing  like  caricature ; the 
outline  has  been  filled  in  where  filling  in  was  necessary, 
and,  vivified  by  a few  touches  of  a master’s  hand, 
Sancho  stands  before  us  as  he  might  in  a character 
portrait  by  Velazquez.  He  is  a much  more  important 
and  prominent  figure  in  the  Second  Part  than  in  the 
First;  indeed,  it  is  his  matchless  mendacity  about 
Dulcinea  that  to  a great  extent  supplies  the  action  of 
the  story. 

His  development  in  this  respect  is  as  remarkable  as 
in  any  other.  In  the  First  Part  he  displays  a great 
natural  gift  of  lying,  as  may  be  seen  in  his  explana- 
tion of  Don  Quixote’s  bruises  in  chapter  xvi.,  and 
above  all  in  that  marvellous  series  of  lies  he  strings 


^DON  QUIXOTE:' 


97 


together  in  chapter  xxxi.  in  answer  to  Don  Quixote’s 
questions  about  Dulcinea.  His  lies  are  not  of  the 
highly  imaginative  sort  that  liars  in  fiction  commonly 
indulge  in ; like  Falstaff ’s,  they  resemble  the  father 
that  begets  them ; they  are  simple,  homely,  plump 
lies ; plain  working  lies,  in  short.  But  in  the  service 
of  such  a master  as  Don  Quixote  he  develops  rapidly, 
as  we  see  when  he  comes  to  palm  off  the  three  coun- 
try wenches  as  Dulcinea  and  her  ladies  in  waiting. 
It  is  worth  noticing  how,  flushed  by  his  success  in  this 
instance,  he  is  tempted  afterwards  to  try  a flight 
beyond  his  powers  in  his  account  of  the  journey  on 
Clavileno. 

In  the  Second  Part  it  is  the  spirit  rather  than  the 
incidents  of  the  chivalry  romances  that  is  the  subject 
of  the  burlesque.  Enchantments  of  the  sort  trav- 
estied in  those  of  Dulcinea  and  the  Trifaldi  and  the 
cave  of  Montesinos  play  a leading  part  in  the  later 
and  inferior  romances,  and  another  distinguishing 
feature  is  caricatured  in  Don  Quixote’s  blind  adora- 
tion of  Dulcinea.  In  the  romances  of  chivalry  love 
is  either  a mere  animalism  or  a fantastic  idolatry. 
Only  a coarse-minded  man  would  care  to  make  merry 
with  the  former,  but  to  one  of  Cervantes’  humor  the 
latter  was  naturally  an  attractive  subject  for  ridicule. 
Like  every  thing  else  in  these  romances,  it  is  a gross 
exaggeration  of  the  real  sentiment  of  chivalry,  but  its 
peculiar  extravagance  is  probably  due  to  the  influence 
of  those  masters  of  hyperbole,  the  Provencal  poets. 
When  a troubadour  professed  his  readiness  to  obey 


98 


INTRODUCTION. 


his  lady  in  all  things,  he  made  it  incumbent  upon  the 
next  comer,  if  he  wished  to  avoid  the  imputation  of 
tameness  and  commonplace,  to  declare  himself  the 
slave  of  her  will,  which  the  next  was  compelled  to 
cap  by  some  still  stronger  declaration ; and  so  expres- 
sions of  devotion  went  on  rising  one  above  the  other 
like  biddings  at  an  auction,  and  a conventional  lan- 
guage of  gallantry  and  theory  of  love  came  into  being 
that  in  time  permeated  the  literature  of  Southern 
Europe,  and  bore  fruit,  in  one  direction  in  the  tran- 
scendental worship  of  Beatrice  and  Laura,  and  in 
another  in  the  grotesque  idolatry  which  found  expo- 
nents in  writers  like  Feliciano  de  Silva.  This  is  what 
Cervantes  deals  with  in  Don  Quixote’s  passion  for 
Dulcinea,  and  in  no  instance  has  he  carried  out  the 
burlesque  more  happily.  By  keeping  Dulcinea  in  the 
background,  and  making  her  a vague  shadowy  being 
of  whose  very  existence  we  are  left  in  doubt,  he 
invests  Don  Quixote’s  worship  of  her  virtues  and 
charms  with  an  additional  extravagance,  and  gives 
still  more  point  to  the  caricature  of  the  sentiment  and 
language  of  the  romances. 

There  will  always  be  a difference  of  opinion  as  to 
the  relative  merits  of  the  First  and  Second  Parts  of 
“ Don  Quixote.”  As  naturally  follows  from  the  dif- 
ference in  aim  between  the  two  Parts,  the  First  is  the 
richer  in  laughable  incidents,  the  Second  in  character ; 
and  the  First  will  always  be  the  favorite  with  those 
whose  taste  leans  to  humor  of  a farcical  sort,  while 
the  Second  will  have  the  preference  with  those  who 


'DON  QUIXOTE: 


99 


incline  to  the  humor  of  comedy.  Another  reason  why 
the  Second  Part  has  less  of  the  purely  ludicrous  ele- 
ment in  it  is  that  Cervantes,  having  a greater  respect 
for  his  hero,  is  more  careful  of  his  personal  dignity. 
In  the  interests  of  the  story  he  has  to  allow"  Don 
Quixote  to  be  made  a butt  of  to  some  extent,  but  he 
spares  him  the  cudgellings  and  cuffings  which  are  the 
usual  finale  of  the  poor  gentleman’s  adventures  in 
the  First  Part. 

There  can  be  no  question,  however,  as  to  the  su- 
periority of  the  Second  Part  in  style  and  construction. 
It  is  one  of  the  commonplaces  of  criticism  to  speak 
of  Don  Quixote  ” as  if  it  were  a model  of  Spanish 
prose,  but  in  truth  there  is  no  work  of  note  in  the 
language  that  is  less  deserving  of  the  title.  There 
are  of  course  various  styles  in  “ Don  Quixote.”  Don 
Quixote’s  own  language  (except  when  he  loses  his 
temper  with  Sancho)  is  most  commonly  modelled  on 
that  of  the  romances  of  chivalry,  and  many  of  the 
descriptive  passages,  like  those  about  the  sun  appear- 
ing on  the  balconies  of  the  east,  and  so  forth,  are 
parodies  of  the  same.  I have  already  spoken  of  the 
wearisome  verbosity  of  the  inserted  novels,  but  the 
narrative  portions  of  the  book  itself,  especially  in 
the  First  Part,  are  sometimes  just  as  long-winded  and 
wordy.  In  both  the  style  reminds  one  somewhat  of 
that  of  the  euphuists,  and  of  their  repugnance  to 
saying  any  thing  in  a natural  way,  and  their  love  of 
cold  conceits  and  verbal  quibbles.  These  were  the 
besetting  sins  of  the  prose  of  the  day,  but  Cervantes 


lOO 


INTRODUCTION. 


has  besides  sins  of  his  own  to  answer  for.  He  was  a 
careless  writer  at  all  times,  but  in  ‘‘  Don  Quixote  ” he 
is  only  too  often  guilty  of  downright  slovenliness. 
The  word  is  that  of  his  compatriot  and  stanch  ad- 
mirer Clemencin,  or  I should  not  venture  to  use  it, 
justifiable  as  it  may  be  in  the  case  of  a writer  who 
deals  in  long  sentences  staggering  down  the  page  on 
a multiplicity  of  “ ands,”  or  working  themselves  into 
tangles  of  parentheses,  sometimes  parenthesis  within 
parenthesis  ; who  begins  a sentence  one  way  and  ends 
it  another ; who  sends  relatives  adrift  without  any 
antecedent  to  look  to ; who  mixes  up  nominatives, 
verbs,  and  pronouns  in  a way  that  would  have  driven 
a Spanish  Cobbett  frantic.  Here  is  an  example  of  a 
very  common  construction  in  “ Don  Quixote  : ” “The 
host  stood  staring  at  him,  and  entreated  with  him 
that  he  would  rise ; but  he  never  would  until  he  had 
to  tell  him  that  he  granted  him  the  boon  he  begged 
of  him.”  Here,  as  Cobbett  would  have  said,  “ is  per- 
fect confusion  and  pell-mell,”  though  no  doubt  the 
meaning  is  clear. 

Nor  are  his  laxities  of  this  sort  only ; his  grammar 
is  very  often  lax,  he  repeats  words  and  names  out  of 
pure  heedlessness,  and  he  has  a strange  propensity  to 
inversion  of  ideas,  and  a curious  tendency  to  say  the 
very  opposite  of  what  he  meant  to  say.  His  blind 
worshippers,  with  whom  it  is  an  axiom  that  he  can  do 
no  wrong,  make  an  odd  apology  for  some  of  these 
slips.  They  are  only  his  fun,  they  say ; in  which  case 
Cervantes  must  have  written  with  a prophetic  eye  to 


'‘DOJV  QUIXOTEr  lOI 

the  friends  of  Mr.  Peter  Magnus,  for  assuredly  no 
others  of  the  sons  of  men  would  be  amused  by  such 
means. 

But  besides  these  two,  there  is  what  we  may  call 
Cervantes’  own  style,  that  into  which  he  falls  naturally 
when  he  is  not  imitating  the  romances  of  chivalry,  or 
under  any  unlucky  impulse  in  the  direction  of  fine- 
writing.  It  is  almost  the  exact  opposite  of  the  last. 
It  is  a simple,  unaffected,  colloquial  style,  not  indeed 
a model  of  correctness,  or  distinguished  by  any  special 
grace  or  elegance,  for  Cervantes  always  wrote  hastily 
and  carelessly,  but  a model  of  clear,  terse,  vigorous 
expression.  To  an  English  reader.  Swift’s  style  will, 
perhaps,  convey  the  best  idea  of  its  character ; at  the 
same  time,  though  equally  matter-of-fact,  it  has  more 
vivacity  than  Swift’s. 

This  is  the  prevailing  style  of  the  Second  Part, 
which  is  cast  in  the  dramatic  form  to  a much  greater 
extent  than  the  First,  consisting,  indeed,  largely  of 
dialogue  between  master  and  man,  or  of  Don  Quixote’s 
discourses  and  Sancho’s  inimitable  comments  thereon. 
Episodes,  Cid  Hamet  tells  us,  have  been  sparingly 
introduced,  and  he  adds  significantly,  with  no  more 
words  than  suffice  to  make  them  intelligible,”  as  if 
even  then  the  verbosity  of  the  novels  had  proved  too 
much  for  some  of  the  readers  of  the  First  Part.  The 
assertion,  however,  is  scarcely  borne  out  by  the  fair 
Claudia’s  story  in  chapter  lx.,  or  that  prodigious 
speech  which  Ana  Felix  delivers  with  the  rope  round 
her  neck  in  chapter  Ixiii. 


102 


INTROD  UCTION. 


It  may  be,  as  Hallam  says,  that  in  the  incidents  of 
the  Second  Part  there  is  not  the  same  admirable  prob- 
ability there  is  in  those  of  the  First ; though  what 
could  be  more  delightfully  probable  than  the  sequel 
of  Sancho’s  unlucky  purchase  of  the  curds  in  chapter 
xvii.  for  example?  But  it  must  be  allowed  that  the 
Second  Part  is  constructed  with  greater  art,  if  the 
word  can  be  applied  to  a story  so  artless.  The  re- 
sults of  Sancho’s  audacious  imposture  at  El  Toboso, 
for  instance,  its  consequences  to  himself  in  the  mat- 
ter of  the  enchantment  of  Dulcinea  and  the  penance 
laid  upon  him,  his  shifts  and  shirkings,  and  Don  Qui- 
xote’s insistance  in  season  and  out  of  season,  are  a 
masterpiece  of  comic  intrigue.  Not  less  adroit  is  the 
way  in  which  encouragement  is  doled  out  to  master 
and  man  from  time  to  time,  to  keep  them  in  heart. 
Even  with  all  due  allowance  for  the  infatuation  of  Don 
Quixote  and  the  simplicity  and  cupidity  of  Sancho,  to 
represent  them  as  holding  out  under  an  unbroken 
course  of  misfortune  would  have  been  untrue  to  human 
nature.  The  victory  achieved  in  such  knightly  fashion 
over  the  Biscayan,  supports  Don  Quixote  under  all  the 
disasters  that  befall  him  in  the  First  Part ; and  in  the 
Second  his  success  against  the  Knight  of  the  Mirrors, 
and  in  the  adventure  with  the  lion,  and  his  reception 
as  a knight-errant  by  the  Duke  and  Duchess,  serve  to 
confirm  him  in  his  idea  of  his  powers  and  vocation. 
Material  support  was  still  more  needful  in  Sancho’s 
case.  It  is  plain  that  a prospective  island  would  not 
have  kept  his  faith  in  chivalry  alive,  had  it  not  been 


^DON  QUIXOTE: 


103 


for  the  treasure-trove  of  the  Sierra  Morena  and  the 
flesh-pots  of  Camacho’s  wedding. 

One  of  the  great  merits  of  “Don  Quixote,”  and 
one  of  the  qualities  that  have  secured  its  acceptance 
by  all  classes  of  readers  and  made  it  the  most  cosmo- 
politan of  books,  is  its  simplicity.  As  Samson  Car- 
rasco says,  “There’s  nothing  in  it  to  puzzle  over.” 
The  bachelor’s  remark,  however,  cannot  be  taken  lit- 
erally, else  there  would  be  an  impertinence  in  notes 
and  commentaries.  There  are,  of  course,  points  obvi- 
ous enough  to  a Spanish  seventeenth-century  audience 
which  do  not  immediately  strike  a reader  nowadays, 
and  Cervantes  often  takes  it  for  granted  that  an  allu- 
sion will  be  generally  understood  which  is  only  intelli- 
gible to  a few.  For  example,  on  many  of  his  readers 
in  Spain,  and  most  of  his  readers  out  of  it,  the  signifi- 
cance of  his  choice  of  a country  for  his  hero  is  com- 
pletely lost.  It  would  be  going  too  far  to  say  that 
no  one  can  thoroughly  comprehend  “ Don  Quixote  ” 
without  having  seen  La  Mancha,  but  undoubtedly  even 
a glimpse  of  La  Mancha  will  give  an  insight  into  the 
meaning  of  Cervantes  such  as  no  commentator  can 
give.  Of  all  the  regions  of  Spain  it  is  the  last  that 
would  suggest  the  idea  of  romance.  Of  all  the  dull 
central  plateau  of  the  Peninsula  it  is  the  dullest  tract. 
There  is  something  impressive  about  the  grim  soli- 
tudes of  Estremadura ; and  if  the  plains  of  Leon  and 
Old  Castile  are  bald  and  dreary,  they  are  studded 
with  old  cities  renowned  in  story  and  rich  in  relics  of 
the  past.  But  there  is  no  redeeming  feature  in  the 


104 


INTRO  D UCTION. 


Manchegan  landscape ; it  has  all  the  sameness  of  the 
desert  without  its  dignity ; the  few  towns  and  villages 
that  break  its  monotony  are  mean  and  commonplace, 
there  is  nothing  venerable  about  them,  they  have  not 
even  the  picturesqueness  of  poverty;  indeed,  Don 
Quixote’s  own  village,  Argamasilla,  has  a sort  of  op- 
pressive respectability  in  the  prim  regularity  of  its 
streets  and  houses ; every  thing  is  ignoble ; the  very 
windmills  are  the  ugliest  and  shabbiest  of  the  wind- 
mill kind. 

To  any  one  who  knew  the  country  well,  the  mere 
style  and  title  of  Don  Quixote  of  La  Mancha  ” gave 
the  key  to  the  author’s  meaning  at  once.  La  Mancha 
as  the  knight’s  country  and  scene  of  his  chivalries  is 
of  a piece  with  the  pasteboard  helmet,  the  farm- 
laborer  on  ass-back  for  a squire,  knighthood  conferred 
by  a rascally  ventero,  convicts  taken  for  victims  of 
oppression,  and  the  rest  of  the  incongruities  between 
Don  Quixote’s  world  and  the  world  he  lived  in,  be- 
tween things  as  he  saw  them  and  things  as  they  were. 

It  is  strange  that  this  element  of  incongruity,  under- 
lying the  whole  humor  and  purpose  of  the  book, 
should  have  been  so  little  heeded  by  the  majority  of 
those  who  have  undertaken  to  interpret  “ Don  Qui- 
xote.” It  has  been  completely  overlooked,  for  exam- 
ple, by  the  illustrators.  To  be  sure,  the  great  majority 
of  the  artists  who  illustrated  Don  Quixote  ” knew 
nothing  whatever  of  Spain.  To  them  a venta  con- 
veyed no  idea  but  the  abstract  one  of  a roadside  inn, 
and  they  could  not  therefore  do  full  justice  to  the 


'DON  QUIXOTE: 


105 


humor  of  Don  Quixote’s  misconception  in  taking  it 
for  a castle,  or  perceive  the  remoteness  of  all  its  reali- 
ties from  his  ideal.  But  even  when  better  informed 
they  seem  to  have  no  apprehension  of  the  full  force  of 
the  discrepancy.  Take,  for  instance,  Gustave  Dore’s 
drawing  of  Don  Quixote  watching  his  armor  in  the 
inn-yard.  Whether  or  not  the  Venta  de  Quesada  on 
the  Seville  road  is,  as  tradition  maintains,  the  inn 
described  in  ‘‘  Don  Quixote,”  beyond  all  question  it 
was  just  such  an  inn-yard  as  the  one  behind  it  that 
Cervantes  had  in  his  mind’s  eye,  and  it  was  on  just 
such  a rude  stone  trough  as  that  beside  the  primitive 
draw-well  in  the  corner  that  he  meant  Don  Quixote 
to  deposit  his  armor.  Gustave  Dor6  makes  it  an 
elaborate  fountain  such  as  no  arriero  ever  watered  his 
mules  at  in  the  corral  of  any  venta  in  Spain,  and 
thereby  entirely  misses  the  point  aimed  at  by  Cervan- 
tes. It  is  the  mean,  prosaic,  commonplace  character 
of  all  the  surroundings  and  circumstances  that  gives 
a significance  to  Don  Quixote’s  vigil  and  the  ceremony 
that  follows.  Gustave  Dor^  might  as  well  have  turned 
La  Tolosa  and  La  Molinera  into  village  maidens  of 
the  opera  type  in  ribbons  and  roses. 

No  humor  suffers  more  from  this  kind  of  treatment 
than  that  of  Cervantes.  Of  that  finer  and  more  deli- 
cate humor  through  which  there  runs  a thread  of 
pathos  he  had  but  little,  or,  it  would  be  fairer  to  say, 
shows  but  little.  There  are  few  indications  in  “ Don 
Quixote  ” or  the  novelas  of  the  power  that  produced 
that  marvellous  scene  in  “ Lazarillo  de  Tormes,” 


o6 


INTRO  D UC  TION. 


where  the  poor  hidalgo  paces  the  patio,  watching 
with  his  hungry  eyes  his  ragged  little  retainer  munch- 
ing the  crusts  and  cowheel.  Cervantes’  humor  is  for 
the  most  part  of  that  broader  and  simpler  sort,  the 
strength  of  which  lies  in  the  perce'ption  of  the  incon- 
gruous. It  is  the  incongruity  of  Sancho  in  all  his 
ways,  words,  and  works,  with  the  ideas  and  aims  of 
his  master,  quite  as  much  as  the  wonderful  vitality  and 
truth  to  nature  of  the  character,  that  makes  him  the 
most  humorous  creation  in  the  whole  range  of  fiction. 

That  unsmiling  gravity  of  which  Cervantes  was  the 
first  great  master,  “ Cervantes’  serious  air,”  which  sits 
naturally  on  Swift  alone,  perhaps,  of  later  humorists, 
is  essential  to  this  kind  of  humor,  and  here  again 
Cervantes  has  suffered  at  the  hands  of  his  interpreters. 
Nothing,  unless  indeed  the  coarse  buffoonery  of  Phil- 
lips, could  be  more  out  of  place  in  an  attempt  to 
represent  Cervantes,  than  a flippant,  would-be  face- 
tious style,  like  that  of  Motteux’s  version  for  example, 
or  the  sprightly,  jaunty  air,  French  translators  some- 
times adopt.  It  is  the  grave  matter-of-factness  of 
the  narrative,  and  the  apparent  unconsciousness  of  the 
author  that  he  is  saying  any  thing  ludicrous,  any  thing 
but  the  merest  commonplace,  that  give  its  peculiar 
flavor  to  the  humor  of  Cervantes.  His,  in  fact,  is  the 
exact  opposite  of  the  humor  of  Sterne  and  the  self- 
conscious  humorists.  Even  when  Uncle  Toby  is  at 
his  best,  you  are  always  aware  of  “ the  man  Sterne  ” 
behind  him,  watching  you  over  his  shoulder  to  see 
what  effect  he  is  producing.  Cervantes  always  leaves 


''DON  QUIXOTE: 


107 


you  alone  with  Don  Quixote  and  Sancho.  He  and 
Swift  and  the  great  humorists  always  keep  themselves 
out  of  sight,  or,  more  properly  speaking,  never  think 
about  themselves  at  all,  unlike  our  latter-day  school 
of  humorists,  who  seem  to  have  revived  the  old  horse- 
collar  method,  and  try  to  raise  a laugh  by  some  gro- 
tesque assumption  of  ignorance,  imbecility,  or  bad 
taste. 

It  is  true  that  to  do  full  justice  to  Spanish  humor 
in  any  other  language  is  well-nigh  an  impossibility. 
There  is  a natural  gravity  and  a sonorous  stateliness 
about  Spanish,  be  it  ever  so  colloquial,  that  make  an 
absurdity  doubly  absurd,  and  give  plausibility  to  the 
most  preposterous  statement.  This  is  what  makes 
Sancho  Panza’s  drollery  the  despair  of  the  conscien- 
tious translator.  Sancho’s  curt  comments  can  never 
fall  flat,  but  they  lose  half  their  flavor  when  transferred 
from  their  native  Castilian  into  any  other  medium. 
But  if  foreigners  have  failed  to  do  justice  to  the 
humor  of  Cervantes,  they  are  no  worse  than  his  own 
countrymen.  Indeed,  were  it  not  for  the  Spanish 
peasant’s  hearty  relish  of  “ Don  Quixote,”  one  might 
be  tempted  to  think  that  the  great  humorist  was  not 
looked  upon  as  a humorist  at  all  in  his  own  country. 
Any  one  knowing  nothing  of  Cervantes,  and  dipping 
into  the  extensive  exegetical  literature  that  has  grown 
up  of  late  years  round  him  and  his  works,  would  infal- 
libly carry  away  the  idea  that  he  was  one  of  the  most 
obscure  writers  that  ever  spoiled  paper,  that  if  he  had 
a meaning  his  chief  endeavor  was  to  keep  it  to  him- 


io8 


INTRODUCTION. 


self,  and  that  whatever  gifts  he  may  have  possessed, 
humor  was  most  certainly  not  one  of  them. 

The  craze  of  Don  Quixote  seems,  in  some  instances, 
to  have  communicated  itself  to  his  critics,  making  them 
see  things  that  are  not  in  the  book,  and  run  full  tilt  at 
phantoms  that  have  no  existence  save  in  their  own 
imaginations.  Like  a good  many  critics  nowadays, 
they  forget  that  screams  are  not  criticism,  and  that  it 
is  only  vulgar  tastes  that  are  influenced  by  strings  of 
superlatives,  three-piled  hyperboles,  and  pompous  epi- 
thets. But  what  strikes  one  as  particularly  strange  is 
that  while  they  deal  in  extravagant  eulogies,  and 
ascribe  all  manner  of  imaginary  ideas  and  qualities  to 
Cervantes,  they  show  no  perception  of  the  quality  that 
ninety-nine  out  of  a hundred  of  his  readers  would  rate 
highest  in  him,  and  hold  to  be  the  one  that  raises  him 
above  all  rivalry.  If  they  are  not  actually  insensible 
to  his  humor,  they  probably  regard  it  as  a quality 
which  their  own  dignity  as  well  as  his  will  not  allow 
them  to  recognize,  and  I am  inclined  to  suspect  that 
this  feeling  has  as  much  to  do  with  their  bitterness 
against  Clemencin,  as  his  temerity  in  venturing  to 
point  out  faults  in  the  god  of  their  idolatry.  Clemen- 
cin, if  not  the  only  one,  is  one  of  the  few  Spanish 
critics  or  commentators  who  show  a genuine  and 
hearty  enjoyment  of  the  humor  of  “ Don  Quixote.” 
Again  and  again,  as  he  is  growling  over  Cervantes’ 
laxities  of  grammar  and  construction,  he  has  to  lay 
down  his  pen,  and  wipe  his  eyes  that  are  brimming 
over  at  some  drollery  or  naivete  of  Sancho’s,  and  it 


^^DON  QUIXOTE:'  lOQ 

may  well  be  that  this  frivolous  behavior  is  regarded 
with  the  utmost  contempt  by  men  so  intensely  in 
earnest  as  the  Cervantistas. 

To  speak  of  “ Don  Quixote  ” as  if  it  were  merely  a 
humorous  book,  would  be  a manifest  misdescription. 
Cervantes  at  times  makes  it  a kind  of  commonplace 
book  for  occasional  essays  and  criticisms,  or  for  the 
observations  and  reflections  and  gathered  wisdom  of  a 
long  and  stirring  life.  It  is  a mine  of  shrewd  observa- 
tion on  mankind  and  human  nature.  Among  modern 
novels  there  may  be,  here  and  there,  more  elaborate 
studies  of  character,  but  there  is  no  book  richer  in 
individualized  character.  What  Coleridge  said  of 
Shakespeare  in  minimis  is  true  of  Cervantes ; he 
never,  even  for  the  most  temporary  purpose,  puts  for- 
ward a lay  figure.  There  is  life  and  individuality  in 
all  his  characters,  however  little  they  may  have  to  do, 
or  however  short  a time  they  may  be  before  the  reader. 
Samson  Carrasco,  the  curate,  Teresa  Panza,  Altisidora, 
even  the  two  students  met  on  the  road  to  the  cave  of 
Montesinos,  all  live  and  move  and  have  their  being ; 
and  it  is  characteristic  of  the  broad  humanity  of  Cer- 
vantes that  there  is  not  a hateful  one  among  them  all. 
Even  poor  Maritornes,  with  her  deplorable  morals,  has 
a kind  heart  of  her  own  and  some  faint  and  distant 
resemblance  to  a Christian  about  her ; ” and  as  for 
Sancho,  though  on  dissection  we  fail  to  find  a lovable 
trait  in  him,  unless  it  be  a sort  of  doglike  affection  for 
his  master,  who  is  there  that  in  his  heart  does  not  love 
him? 


I lO 


INTR  OD  UC  TION. 


But  it  is,  after  all,  the  humor  of  “ Don  Quixote  ” 
that  distinguishes  it  from  all  other  books  of  the  romance 
kind.  It  is  this  that  makes  it,  as  one  of  the  most 
judicial-minded  of  modern  critics  calls  it,  “ the  best 
novel  in  the  world  beyond  all  comparison.”  ‘ It  is  its 
varied  humor,  ranging  from  broad  farce  to  comedy  as 
subtle  as  Shakespeare’s  or  Moliere’s,  that  has  natural- 
ized it  in  every  country  where  there  are  readers,  and 
made  it  a classic  in  every  language  that  has  a literature. 

We  are  sometimes  told  that  classics  have  had  their 
day,  and  that  the  literature  of  the  future  means  to 
shake  itself  loose  from  the  past,  and  respect  no  anti- 
quity and  recognize  no  precedent.  Will  the  coming 
iconoclasts  spare  Don  Quixote,”  or  is  Cervantes 
doomed,  with  Homer  and  Dante,  Shakespeare  and 
Moliere?  So  far  as  a forecast  is  possible,  it  seems 
clear  that  their  humor  will  not  be  his  humor.  Even 
now,  persons  who  take  their  idea  of  humor  from  that 
form  of  it  most  commonly  found  between  yellow  and 
red  boards  on  a railway  book-stall  may  be  sometimes 
heard  to  express  a doubt  about  the  humor  of  “ Don 
Quixote,”  and  the  sincerity  of  those  who  profess  to 
enjoy  it,  they  themselves  being,  in  their  own  phrase, 
unable  to  see  any  fun  in  it.  The  humor  of  “ Don 
Quixote  ” has,  however,  the  advantage  of  being  based 
upon  human  nature,  and  as  the  human  nature  of  the 
future  will  probably  be,  upon  the  whole,  much  the 


* I am  going  through  Don  Quixote  again,  and  admire  it  more  than  ever. 
It  is  certainly  the  best  novel  in  the  world  beyond  all  comparison.  — Macaulay, 
I.ifc  atici  Letters. 


'DON  QUIXOTE: 


I I I 

same  as  the  human  nature  of  the  past,  it  is,  perhaps, 
no  unreasonable  supposition  that  what  has  been  rel- 
ished for  its  truth  may  continue  to  find  some  measure 
of  acceptance. 

If  it  be  not  presumptuous  to  express  any  solicitude 
about  the  future,  let  us  hope  so ; for,  it  must  be 
owned,  its  prophets  do  not  encourage  the  idea  that 
liveliness  will  be  among  its  characteristics.  The 
humor  of  Cervantes  may  have  its  uses  too,  even  in 
that  advanced  state  of  society.  The  future,  doubtless, 
will  be  great  and  good  and  wise  and  virtuous,  but 
being  still  human  it  will  have  its  vanities  and  self-con- 
ceits, its  shams,  humbugs,  and  impostures,  even  as  we 
have,  or  haply  greater  than  ours,  for  every  thing,  we  are 
told,  will  be  on  a scale  of  which  we  have  no  concep- 
tion ; and  against  these  there  is  no  weapon  so  effective 
as  the  old-fashioned  one  with  which  Cervantes  smote 
the  great  sham  of  his  own  day. 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


PART  I. 


,V! 


M-rrMRy 

0(  THE 

UNIVEHSITT  Of  ILLINOIS 


/> 


THE  AUTHOR'S  PREFACE. 


II7 


reading.  Many  times  did  I take  up  my  pen  to  write 
it,  and  many  did  I lay  it  down  again,  not  knowing 
what  to  write.  One  of  these  times,  as  I was  ponder- 
ing with  the  paper  before  me,  a pen  in  my  ear,  my 
elbow  on  the  desk,  and  my  cheek  in  my  hand,  think- 
ing of  what  I should  say,  there  came  in  unexpectedly 
a certain  lively,  clever  friend  of  mine,  who,  seeing  me 
so  deep  in  thought,  asked  the  reason ; to  which  I, 
making  no  mystery  of  it,  answered  that  I was  think- 
ing of  the  Preface  I had  to  make  for  the  story  of 
“ Don  Quixote,”  which  so  troubled  me  that  I had  a 
mind  not  to  make  any  at  all,  nor  even  publish  the 
achievements  of  so  noble  a knight.  . 

For,  how  could  you  expect  me  not  to  feel  uneasy 
about  what  that  ancient  lawgiver  they  call  the  Public 
will  say  when  it  sees  me,  after  slumbering  so  many 
years  in  the  silence  of  oblivion,  coming  out  now  with 
all  my  years  upon  my  back,  and  with  a book  as  dry 
as  a rush,  devoid  of  invention,  meagre  in  style,  poor 
m thoughts,  wholly  wanting  in  learning  and  wisdom, 
without  quotations  in  the  margin  or  annotations  at  the 
end,  after  the  fashion  of  other  books  I see,  which, 
though  all  fables  and  profanity,  are  so  full  of  maxims 
from  Aristotle,  and  Plato,  and  the  whole  herd’  of 
philosophers,  that  they  fill  the  readers  with  amaze- 
ment and  convince  them  that  the  authors  are  men  of 


8 


nON  QUIXOTE. 


learning,  erudition,  and  eloquence.  And  then,  when 
they  quote  the  Holy  Scriptures  ! — any  one  would  say 
they  are  St.  Thomases  or  other  doctors  of  the  Church, 
observing  as  they  do  a decorum  so  ingenious  that  in 
one  sentence  they  describe  a distracted  lover  and 
in  the  next  deliver  a devout  little  sermon  that  it  is 
a pleasure  and  a treat  to  hear  and  read.  Of  all  this 
there  will  be  nothing  in  my  book,  for  I have  nothing 
to  quote  in  the  margin  or  to  note  at  the  end,  and  still 
less  do  I know  what  authors  I follow  in  it,  to  place 
them  at  the  beginning,  as  all  do,  under  the  letters 
A,  B,  C,  beginning  with  Aristotle  and  ending  with 
Xenophon,  or  Zoilus,  or  Zeuxis,  though  one  was  a 
slanderer  and  the  other  a painter.  Also  my  book 
must  do  without  sonnets  at  the  beginning,  at  least 
sonnets  whose  authors  are  dukes,  marquises,  counts, 
bishops,  ladies,  or  famous  poets.  Though  if  I were 
to  ask  two  or  three  obliging  friends,  I know  they 
would  give  me  them,  and  such  as  the  productions  of 
those  that  have  the  highest  reputation  in  our  Spain 
could  not  equal.' 


* The  humor  of  this,  and  indeed  of  the  greater  part  of  the  Preface,  can 
hardly  be  relished  without  a knowledge  of  the  books  of  the  day,  but  espe- 
cially Lope  de  Vega’s,  which  in  their  original  editions  appeared  generally 
with  an  imposing  display  of  complimentary  sonnets  and  verses,  as  well  as 
of  other  adjuncts  of  the  sort  Cervantes  laughs  at.  Lope’s  Isidro  (1599)  had 
ten  pieces  of  complimentary  verse  prefixed  to  it,  and  the  Her7nosura  de 


THE  AUTHOR'S  PREFACE. 


119 


“ In  short,  my  friend,”  I continued,  “ I am  deter- 
mined that  Senor  Don  Quixote  shall  remain  buried 
in  the  archives  of  his  own  La  Mancha  until  Heaven 
provide  some  one  to  garnish  him  with  all  those  things 
he  stands  in  need  of ; because  I find  myself,  through 
my  shallowness  and  want  of  learning,  unequal  to  sup- 
plying them,  and  because  I am  by  nature  shy  and 
careless  about  hunting  for  authors  to  say  what  I 
myself  can  say  without  them.  Hence  the  cogitation 
and  abstraction  you  found  me  in,  and  reason  enough, 
what  you  have  heard  from  me.” 

Hearing  this,  my  friend,  giving  himself  a slap  on 
the  forehead  and  breaking  into  a hearty  laugh,  ex- 
claimed, ‘‘  Before  God,  Brother,  now  am  I disabused 
of  an  error  in  which  I have  been  living  all  this  long 
time  I have  known  you,  all  through  which  I have 
taken  you  to  be  shrewd  and  sensible  in  all  you  do ; 
but  now  I see  you  are  as  far  from  that  as  the  heaven 
is  from  the  earth.  How?  Is  it  possible  that  things 

Angelica  (1602)  had  seven.  Hartzenbusch  remarks  that  Aristotle  and 
Plato  are  the  first  authors  quoted  by  Lope  in  the  Peregrine  en  stt  Patria 
(1604). 

Who  the  two  or  three  obliging  friends  may  have  been  is  not  easy  to  say. 
Young  Quevedo,  who  had  just  then  taken  his  place  in  the  front  rank  of  the 
poets  of  the  day,  was,  no  doubt,  one;  Espinel  may  have  been  another;  and 
Jauregui  might  have  been  the  third.  Cervantes  had  not  many  friends 
among  the  poets  of  the  day.  His  friendships  lay  rather  among  those  of 
the  generation  that  was  dying  out  when  Don  Quixote  appeared. 


20 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


of  SO  little  moment  and  so  easy  to  set  right  can 
occupy  and  perplex  a ripe  wit  like  yours,  fit  to  break 
through  and  crush  far  greater  obstacles?  By  my 
faith,  this  comes,  not  of  any  want  of  ability,  but  of 
too  much  indolence  and  too  little  knowledge  of  life. 
Do  you  want  to  know  if  I am  telling  the  truth? 
Well,  then,  attend  to  me,  and  you  will  see  how,  in 
the  opening  and  shutting  of  an  eye,  I sweep  away 
all  your  difficulties,  and  supply  all  those  deficiencies 
which  you  say  check  and  discourage  you  from  bring- 
ing before  the  world  the  story  of  your  famous  Don 
Quixote,  the  light  and  mirror  of  all  knight-errantry.” 

“ Say  on,”  said  I,  listening  to  his  talk ; “ how  do 
you  propose  to  make  up  for  my  diffidence,  and  re- 
duce to  order  this  chaos  of  perplexity  I am  in?” 

To  which  he  made  answer,  “ Your  first  difficulty 
about  the  sonnets,  epigrams,  or  complimentary  verses 
which  you  want  for  the  beginning,  and  which  ought 
to  be  by  persons  of  importance  and  rank,  can  be 
removed  if  you  yourself  take  a little  trouble  to  make 
them ; you  can  afterwards  baptize  them,  and  put 
any  name  you  like  to  them,  fathering  them  on  Prester 
John  of  the  Indies  or  the  Emperor  of  Trebizond, 
who,  to  my  knowledge,  were  said  to  have  been 
famous  poets  : and  even  if  they  were  not,  and  any 
pedants  or  bachelors  should  attack  you  and  question 


THE  A U THORNS  PREFACE. 


I2I 


the  fact,  never  care  two  maravedis  for  that,  for  even 
if  they  prove  a lie  against  you  they  cannot  cut  off 
the  hand  you  wrote  it  with. 

“ As  to  references  in  the  margin  to  the  books  and 
authors  from  whom  you  take  the  aphorisms  and  say- 
ings you  put  into  your  story,  it  is  only  contriving  to 
fit  in  nicely  any  sentences  or  scraps  of  Latin  you 
may  happen  to  have  by  heart,  or  at  any  rate  that 
will  not  give  you  much  trouble  to  look  up ; so  as, 
when  you  speak  of  freedom  and  captivity,  to  insert 

Non  bene  pro  toto  libertas  venditur  auro; 

and  then  refer  in  the  margin  to  Horace,  or  whoever 
said  it ; ' or,  if  you  allude  to  the  power  ’ of  death, 
to  come  in  with  — 

Pallida  mors  aequo  pulsat  pede  pauperum  tabernas, 
Regumque  turres. 

If  it  be  friendship  and  the  love  God  bids  us  bear 
to  our  enemy,  go  at  once  to  the  Holy  Scriptures, 
which  you  can  do  with  a very  small  amount  of  re- 
search, and  quote  no  less  than  the  words  of  God 
himself : Ego  autem  dico  vobis : diligite  inimicos 
vestros.  If  you  speak  of  evil  thoughts,  turn  to  the 
Gospel : De  corde  exeunt  cogitationes  malce.  If  of 


/Esop,  Fable  of  the  Dog  and  the  Wolf. 


22 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


the  fickleness  of  friends,  there  is  Cato,  who'will  give 
you  his  distich  : 

Donee  eris  felix  multos  numerabis  amicos, 

Tempora  si  fuerint  nubila,  solus  eris.* 

With  these  and  such  like  bits  of  Latin  they  will  take 
you  for  a grammarian  at  all  events,  and  that  nowa- 
days is  no  small  honor  and  profit. 

‘‘With  regard  to  adding  annotations  at  the  end 
of  the  book,  you  may  safely  do  it  in  this  way.  If 
you  mention  any  giant  in  your  book  contrive  that 
it  shall  be  the  giant  Goliath,  and  with  this  alone, 
which  will  cost  you  almost  nothing,  you  have  a grand 
note,  for  you  can  put  — The  giant  Go  lias  or  Goliath 
was  a Philistine  whom  the  shephe^'d  David  slew  by 
a mighty  stone-cast  in  the  Terebinth  valley,  as  is 
related  in  the  Book  of  Kmgs  — in  the  chapter  where 
you  find  it  written. 

“ Next,  to  prove  yourself  a man  of  erudition  in 
polite  literature  and  cosmography,  manage  that  the 
river  Tagus  shall  be  named  in  your  story,  and  there 


* The  distich  is  not  Cato’s,  but  Ovid’s;  but  Hartzenbusch  points  out 
that  there  is  a distich  of  Cato’s  beginning  Cum  fueris  felix  which  Cer- 
vantes may  have  originally  inserted,  substituting  the  other  afterwards  as 
more  applicable.  Lope  de  Vega’s  second  name  was  Felix,  and  Hartzen- 
busch thinks  the  quotation  was  aimed  at  him.  The  Cato  is,  of  course, 
Dionysius  Cato,  author  of  the  Disticha  de  Moribus. 


THE  AUTHOR'S  PREFACE. 


123 


you  are  at  once  with  another  famous  annotation, 
setting  forth — The  river 'Tagus  was  so  called  after 
a King  of  Spain  : it  has  its  source  in  such  and  such  a 
place  and  falls  into  the  ocean,  kissing  the  walls  of 
the  famous  city  of  Lisbon,  and  it  is  a common  belief 
that  it  has  golden  sands,  etc.'  If  you  should  have 
any  thing  to  do  with  robbers,  I will  give  you  the 
story  of  Cacus,  for  I have  it  by  heart ; if  with  loose 
women,  there  is  the  Bishop  of  Mondohedo,  who  will 
give  you  the  loan  of  Lamia,  Laida,  and  Flora,  any 
reference  to  whom  will  bring  you  great  credit ; ^ if 
with  hard-hearted  ones,  Ovid  will  furnish  you  with 
Medea;  if  with  witches  or  enchantresses,  Homer 
has  Calypso,  and  Virgil  Circe;  if  with  valiant  cap- 
tains, Julius  Caesar  himself  will  lend  you  himself  in 
his  own  ‘ Commentaries,’  and  Plutarch  will  give  you  a 
thousand  Alexanders.  If  you  should  deal  with  love, 
with  two  ounces  you  may  know  of  Tuscan  you  can 
go  to  Leon  the  Hebrew,  who  will  supply  you  to 
your  heart’s  content ; ^ or  if  you  should  not  care  to 


^ In  the  Index  of  Proper  Names  to  Lope’s  Arcadia  there  is  a descrip- 
tion of  the  Tagus  in  very  nearly  these  words. 

2 The  Bishop  of  Mondohedo  was  Antonio  de  Guevara,  in  whose  Epistles 
the  story  referred  to  appears.  The  introduction  of  the  Bishop  and  the 
“ creditable  reference  ” is  a touch  after  Swift’s  heart. 

3 Author  of  the  Dialoghi  di  Amore,  a Portuguese  Jew,  who  settled 
in  Spain,  but  was  expelled  and  went  to  Naples  in  1492. 


124 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


go  to  foreign  countries  you  have  at  home  Fonseca’s 
‘ Of  the  Love  of  God,’  in  which  is  condensed  all 
that  you  or  the  most  imaginative  mind  can  want  on 
the  subject.'  In  short,  all  you  have  to  do  is  to 
manage  to  quote  these  names,  or  refer  to  these 
stories  I have  mentioned,  in  your  own,  and  leave  it 
to  me  to  insert  the  annotations  and  quotations,  and 
I swear  by  all  that’s  good^  to  fill  your  margins 

and  use  up  four  sheets  at  the  end  of  the  book. 

“ Now  let  us  come  to  those  references  to  authors 
which  other  books  have,  and  you  want  for  yours. 
The  remedy  for  this  is  very  simple  : You  have  only 

to  look  out  for  some  book  that  quotes  them  all, 

from  A to  Z as  you  say  yourself,  and  then  insert  the 
very  same  alphabet  in  your  book,  and  though  the 
imposition  may  be  plain  to  see,  because  you  have  so 
little  need  to  borrow  from  them,  that  is  no  matter; 
there  will  probably  be  some  simple  enough  to  be- 
lieve that  you  have  made  use  of  them  all  in  this 


* Amor  de  Dios,  by  Cristobal  de  Fonseca,  printed  in  1594. 

2 “By  all  that’s  good”  — “ Voto  a tal” — one  of  the  milder  forms  of 
asseveration  used  as  a substitute  on  occasions  when  the  stronger  “ Voto  a 
Dios”  might  seem  uncalled  for  or  irreverent;  an  expletive  of  the  same 
nature  as  “ Egad!  ” “ Begad!  ” or  the  favorite  feminine  exclamation,  “ Oh 
my!  ” “ By  all  that’s  good  ” has,  no  doubt,  the  same  origin.  Of  the  same 
sort  are,  “ Voto  a Brios,”  “ Voto  a Rus,”  “ Cuerpo  de  tal,”  “ Vida  de  tal,” 
etc.  The  last  two  correspond  to  our  “ Od’s  body,”  “ Od’s  life.” 


THE  AUTHOR'S  PREFACE. 


125 


plain,  artless  story  of  yours.  At  any  rate,  if  it  an- 
swers no  other  purpose,  this  long  catalogue  of  authors 
will  serve  to  give  a surprising  look  of  authority  to 
your  book.  Besides,  no  one  will  trouble  himself 
to  verify  whether  you  have  followed  them  or  whether 
you  have  not,  being  no  way  concerned  in  it ; espe- 
cially as,  if  I mistake  not,  this  book  of  yours  has  no 
need  of  any  one  of  those  things  you  say  it  wants,  for 
it  is,  from  beginning  to  end,  an  attack  upon  the 
books  of  chivalry,  of  which  Aristotle  never  dreamt, 
nor  St.  Basil  said  a word,  nor  Cicero  had  any  knowl- 
edge ; nor  do  the  niceties  of  truth  nor  the  observa- 
tions of  astrology  come  within  the  range  of  its  fanciful 
vagaries  ; nor  have  geometrical  measurements  or  refu- 
tations of  the  arguments  used  in  rhetoric  any  thing 
to  do  with  it ; nor  does  it  mean  to  preach  to  any- 
body, mixing  up  things  human  and  divine,  a sort  of 
motley  in  which  no  Christian  understanding  should 
dress  itself.  It  has  only  to  avail  itself  of  truth  to 
nature  in  its  composition,  and  the  more  perfect  the 
imitation  the  better  the  work  will  be.  And  as  this 
piece  of  yours  aims  at  nothing  more  than  to  destroy 
the  authority  and  influence  which  books  of  chivalry 
have  in  the  world  and  with  the  public,  there  is  no 
need  for  you  to  go  a-begging  for  aphorisms  from 
philosophers,  precepts  from  Holy  Scripture,  fables 


126 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


from  poets,  speeches  from  orators,  or  miracles  from 
saints ; but  merely  to  take  care  that  your  style  and 
diction  run  musically,  pleasantly,  and  plainly,  with 
clear,  proper,  and  well-placed  words,  setting  forth 
your  purpose  to  the  best  of  your  power  and  as  well 
as  possible,  and  putting  your  ideas  intelligibly,  with- 
out confusion  or  obscurity.  Strive,  too,  that  in  read- 
ing your  story  the  melancholy  may  be  moved  to 
laughter,  and  the  merry  made  merrier  still ; that 
the  simple  shall  not  be  wearied,  that  the  judicious 
shall  admire  the  invention,  that  the  grave  shall  not 
despise  it,  nor  the  wise  fail  to  praise  it.  Finally, 
keep  your  aim  fixed  on  the  destruction  of  that  ill- 
founded  edifice  of  the  books  of  chivalry,  hated  by 
some  and  praised  by  many  more ; for  if  you  succeed 
in  this  you  will  have  achieved  no  small  success.” 

In  profound  silence  I listened  to  what  my  friend 
said,  and  his  observations  made  such  an  impression 
on  me  that,  without  attempting  to  question  them,  I 
admitted  their  soundness,  and  out  of  them  I deter- 
mined to  make  this  Preface  ; wherein,  gentle  reader, 
thou  wilt  perceive  my  friend’s  good  sense,  my  good 
fortune  in  finding  such  an  adviser  in  such  a time  of 
need,  and  what  thou  hast  gained  in  receiving,  without 
addition  or  alteration,  the  story  of  the  famous  Don 
Quixote  of  La  Mancha,  who  is  held  by  all  the  inhab- 


THE  AUTHOR'S  PREFACE. 


12/ 


itants  of  the  district  of  the  Campo  de  Montiel  to  have 
been  the  chastest  lover  and  the  bravest  knight  that 
has  for  many  years  been  seen  in  that  neighborhood. 
I have  no  desire  to  magnify  the  service  I render  thee 
in  making  thee  acquainted  with  so  renowned  and 
honored  a knight,  but  I do  desire  thy  thanks  for  the 
acquaintance  thou  wilt  make  with  the  famous  Sancho 
Panza,  his  squire,  in  whom,  to  my  thinking,  I have 
given  thee  condensed  all  the  squirely  drolleries  ' that 
are  scattered  through  the  swarm  of  the  vain  books  of 
chivalry.  And  so  — may  God  give  thee  health,  and 
not  forget  me.  Vale. 


* The  gracioso  was  the  “ droll  ” of  the  Spanish  stage.  Cervantes  re- 
peatedly uses  the  word  to  describe  Sancho,  and,  as  here,  alludes  to  his 
gracias  or  drolleries. 


COMMENDATORY  VERSES. 


URGANDA  THE  UNKNOWN  ^ 

To  THE  Book  of  Don  Quixote  of  La  Mancha. 

If  to  be  welcomed  by  the  good, 

O Book ! thou  make  thy  steady  aim, 

No  empty  chatterer  will  dare 

To  question  or  dispute  thy  claim. 

But  if  perchance  thou  hast  a mind 
To  win  of  idiots  approbation, 

Lost  labor  will  be  thy  reward. 

Though  they’ll  pretend  appreciation. 


* All  translators,  I think,  except  Shelton  and  Mr.  Duffield,  have  entirely 
omitted  these  preliminary  pieces  of  verse,  which,  however,  should  be  pre- 
served — not  for  their  poetical  merits,  which  are  of  the  slenderest  sort,  but 
because,  being  burlesques  on  the  pompous,  extravagant,  laudatory  verses 
usually  prefixed  to  books  in  the  time  of  Cervantes,  they  are  in  harmony  with 
the  aim  and  purpose  of  the  work,  and  also  a fulfilment  of  the  promise  held 
out  in  the  Preface. 

2 Or  more  strictly  “the  unrecognized;  ” a personage  in  Amadis  of  Gaul 
som«what  akin  to  Morgan  la  Fay  and  Vivien  in  the  Arthur  legend,  though 
the  part  she  plays  is  more  like  that  of  Merlin.  She  derived  her  title  from  the 
faculty  which,  like  Merlin,  she  possessed  of  changing  her  form  and  appear- 
ance at  will.  The  verses  are  assigned  to  her  probably  because  she  was  the 
adviser  of  Amadis.  They  form  a kind  of  appendix  to  the  author’s  Preface. 

129 


30 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


They  say  a goodly  shade  he  finds 
Who  shelters  ’neath  a goodly  tree  ; * 
And  such  a one  thy  kindly  star 
In  Bejar  hath  provided  thee  : 

A royal  tree  whose  spreading  boughs 
A show  of  princely  fruit  display  ; 

A tree  that  bears  a noble  Duke, 

The  Alexander  of  his  day.2 


Of  a Manchegan  gentleman 

Thy  purpose  is  to  tell  the  story, 
Relating  how  he  lost  his  wits 
O’er  idle  tales  of  love  and  glory, 

Of  “ ladies,  arms,  and  cavaliers  : ” 3 
A new  Orlando  Furioso  — 
Innamorato,  rather  — who 
Won  Dulcinea  del  Toboso. 

Put  no  vain  emblems  on  thy  shield  ; 

All  figures  — that  is  bragging  play .4 
A modest  dedication  make. 

And  give  no  scoffer  room  to  say. 


‘ Prov.  15. 

2 The  Duke  of  B^jar,  to  whom  the  book  was  dedicated.  The  Zuniga 
family,  of  which  the  Duke  was  the  head,  claimed  descent  from  the  royal  line 
of  Navarre. 

^ “ Le  donne,  i cavalieri,  I’arme,  gli  amori”  — Orlando  Furioso,  i.  i. 
This  is  one  of  many  proofs  that  the  Orlando  of  Ariosto  was  one  of  the 
sources  from  which  Cervantes  borrowed. 

“ Figures,”  i.e.  picture  cards.  The  allu.sion  to  vain  emblems  on  the 
shield  is  a sly  hit  at  Lope  de  Vega,  whose  portrait  in  the  Arcadia,  and 
again  in  the  Rimas  (1602),  has  underneath  it  a shield  bearing  nine  castles 
surrounded  by  an  orle  with  ten  more. 


COMMENDATORY  VERSES. 


131 


“ What ! Alvaro  cle  Luna  here  ? 

Or  is  it  Hannibal  again? 

Or  does  King  Francis  at  Madrid 
Once  more  of  destiny  complain  ? ” * 


Since  Heaven  it  hath  not  pleased  on  thee 
Deep  erudition  to  bestow, 

Or  black  Latino’s  gift  of  tongues, 2 
No  Latin  let  thy  pages  show. 

Ape  not  philosophy  or  wit, 

Lest  one  who  cannot  comprehend. 

Make  a wry  face  at  thee  and  ask, 

“ Why  offer  flowers  to  me,  my  friend  ? ” 


Be  not  a meddler  ; no  affair 
Of  thine  the  life  thy  neighbors  lead  : 
Be  prudent;  oft  the  random  jest 
Recoils  upon  the  jester’s  head. 

Thy  constant  labor  let  it  be 

To  earn  thyself  an  honest  name. 

For  fooleries  preserved  in  print 
Are  perpetuity  of  shame. 


* This  refers  to  the  querulous  and  egotistic  tone  in  which  dedications  were 
often  written.  Alvaro  de  Luna  was  the  Constable  of  Castile  and  favorite  of 
John  II.,  beheaded  at  Valladolid  in  1450.  Francis  I.  of  France  was  kept  a 
prisoner  at  Madrid  by  Charles  V.  for  a year  after  the  battle  of  Pavia.  The 
last  four  lines  of  the  stanza  are  almost  verbatim  from  verses  by  Fray  Domingo 
de  Guzman  written  as  a gloss  upon  some  lines  carved  by  the  poet  Fray  Luis 
de  Leon  on  the  wall  of  his  cell  in  Valladolid,  where  he  was  imprisoned  by  the 
Inquisition. 

2 Juan  Latino,  a self-educated  negro  slave  in  the  household  of  the  Duke 
of  Sesa,  who  gave  him  his  freedom.  He  was  for  sixty  years  Professor  of 
Rhetoric  and  Latin  at  Granada,  where  he  died  in  1573. 


32 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


A further  counsel  bear  in  mind  : 

If  that  thy  roof  be  made  of  glass, 

It  shows  small  wit  to  pick  up  stones 
To  pelt  the  people  as  they  pass. 

Win  the  attention  of  the  wise, 

And  give  the  thinker  food  for  thought ; 
Whoso  indites  frivolities. 

Will  but  by  simpletons  be  sought. 


AMADIS  OF  GAUL 
To  Don  Quixote  of  La  Mancha. 

SONNET. 

Thou  that  didst  imitate  that  life  of  mine,* 

When  I in  lonely  sadness  on  the  great 
Rock  Pena  Pobre  sat  disconsolate, 

In  self-imposM  penance  there  to  pine; 

Thou,  whose  sole  beverage  was  the  bitter  brine 
Of  thine  own  tears,  and  who  withouten  plate 
Of  silver,  copper,  tin,  in  lowly  state 
Off  the  bare  earth  and  on  earth’s  fruits  didst  dine ; 
Live  thou,  of  thine  eternal  glory  sure. 

So  long  as  on  the  round  of  the  fourth  sphere 
The  bright  Apollo  shall  his  coursers  steer, 

In  thy  renown  thou  shalt  remain  secure, 

Thy  country’s  name  in  story  shall  endure. 

And  thy  sage  author  stand  without  a peer. 


In  allusion  lo  Don  Quixote’s  penance  in  the  Sierra  Morena. 


COMMENDATORY  VERSES. 


133 


DON  r>ELIANIS  OF  GREECE* 

To  Don  Quixote  of  La  Mancha. 

SONNET. 

In  slashing,  hewing,  cleaving,  word  and  deed, 

I was  the  foremost  knight  of  chivalry. 

Stout,  bold,  expert,  as  e’er  the  world  did  see  ; 
Thousands  from  the  oppressor’s  wrong  I freed; 
Great  were  my  feats,  eternal  fame  their  meed  ; 

In  love  I proved  my  truth  and  loyalty ; 

The  hugest  giant  was  a dwarf  for  me ; 

Ever  to  knighthood’s  laws  gave  I good  heed. 

My  mastery  the  Fickle  Goddess  owned, 

And  even  Chance,  submitting  to  control,  / 
Grasped  by  the  forelock,  yielded  to  my  will. 
Yet  — though  above  yon  hornM  moon  enthroned 
My  fortune  seems  to  sit  — great  Quixote,  still 
Envy  of  thy  achievements  fills  my  soul. 


THE  LADY  ORIANA^ 

To  Dulcinea  del  Toboso. 

SONNET. 

Oh,  fairest  Dulcinea,  could  it  be  ! 

It  were  a pleasant  fancy  to  suppose  so  — 
Could  Miraflores  change  to  El  Toboso, 

And  London’s  town  to  that  which  shelters  thee  ! 


* V.  Note  2,  p.  106. 

2 Oriana,  the  heroine  of  Amadis  of  Gaul.  Her  castle  Miraflores  was 
within  two  leagues  of  London.  Shelton  in  his  translation  puts  it  at  Green- 
wich. 


134 


DON  QUIXOTE, 


Oh,  could  mine  but  acquire  that  livery 

Of  countless  charms  thy  mind  and  body  show  so  ! 

Or  him,  now  famous  grown  — thou  mad’st  him  grow^ 
so  — 

Thy  knight,  in  some  dread  combat  could  I see  ! 

Oh,  could  I be  released  from  Amadis 
By  exercise  of  such  coy  chastity 
As  led  thee  gentle  Quixote  to  dismiss ! 

Then  would  my  heavy  sorrow  turn  to  joy; 

None  would  I envy,  all  would  envy  me. 

And  happiness  be  mine  without  alloy. 


GANDALIN,  SQUIRE  OF  AMADIS  OF  GAUL, 
To  Sanxho  Panza,  Squire  of  Don  Quixote. 

SONNET. 

All  hail,  illustrious  man  ! Fortune,  when  she 
Bound  thee  apprentice  to  the  esquire  trade, 

Her  care  and  tenderness  of  thee  displayed, 
Shaping  thy  course  from  misadventure  free. 

No  longer  now  doth  proud  knight-errantry 
Regard  with  scorn  the  sickle  and  the  spade ; 

Of  towering  arrogance  less  count  is  made 
Than  of  plain  esquire-like  simplicity. 

I envy  thee  thy  Dapple,  and  thy  name, 

And  those  alforjas  thou  wast  wont  to  stuff 
With  comforts  that  thy  providence  proclaim. 
Excellent  Sancho ! hail  to  thee  again! 

To  thee  alone  the  Ovid  of  our  Spain 
Does  homage  with  the  rustic  kiss  and  cuff.* 


* " Rustic  kiss  and  cuff”  — biizcorona  — a boorish  practical  joke  the  point 
®f  which  lay  in  inducing  some  simpleton  to  kiss  the  joker’s  hand,  which  .as  he 


COMMENDATORY  VERSES. 


135 


FROM  EL  DONOSO,  THE  MOTLEY  POET/ 

On  Sancho  Panza  and  Rocinante. 

ON  SANCHO. 

I am  the  esquire  Sancho  Pan — 

Who  served  Don  Quixote  of  La  Man — ; 

But  from  his  service  I retreat — , 

Resolved  to  pass  my  life  discreet — ; 

For  Villadiego,  called  the  Si — , 

Maintained  that  only  in  reti — 

Was  found  the  secret  of  well-be — , 

According  to  the  “ Celesti — : ” 2 
A book  divine,  except  for  sin — 

By  speech  too  plain,  in  my  opin — . 


stoops  gives  him  a cuff  on  the  cheek.  The  application  here  is  not  very- 
obvious,  for  it  is  the  person  who  does  homage  who  receives  the  buzcorona. 
It  is  not  clear  who  is  meant  by  the  Spanish  Ovid;  some  say  Cervantes  him- 
self; others,  as  Hartzenbusch,  Lope  de  Vega. 

* “ Motley  poet  ” — Poeta  entreverado.  Entreverado  is  properly 
“ mixed  fat  and  lean,”  as  bacon  should  be.  Commentators  have  been  at  .some 
pains  to  extract  a meaning  from  these  lines.  The  truth  is  they  have  none, 
and  were  not  meant  to  have  any.  If  it  were  not  profanity  to  apply  the  word 
to  any  thing  coming  from  Cervantes,  they  might  be  called  mere  pieces  of 
buffoonery,  mere  idle  freaks  of  the  author’s  pen.  The  verse  in  which  they  are 
written  is  worthy  of  the  matter.  It  is  of  the  sort  called  in  Spanish  de  pies 
cortados,  its  peculiarity  being  that  each  line  ends  with  a word  the  last  syllable 
of  which  has  been  lopped  off.  The  invention  has  been  attributed  to  Cervantes, 
but  the  honor  is  one  which  no  admirer  of  his  will  be  solicitous  to  claim  for 
him,  and  in  fact  there  are  half  a dozen  specimens  in  the  Picara  J-iistina,  a 
book  published  if  any  thing  earlier  than  Don  Quixote.  I have  here  imitated 
the  tour  de  force  as  well  as  I could,  an  experiment  never  before  attempted 
and  certainly  not  worth  repeating.  The  “ Urganda  ” verses  are  written  in  the 
same  fashion,  but  I did  not  feel  bound  to  try  the  reader’s  patience — or  my 
own  — by  a more  extended  reproduction  of  the  puerility. 

2 Celestina,  or  Tragicomedy  of  Calisto  and  Melibcea  (1499),  the  first 
act  of  which  is  generally  attributed  to  Rodrigo  Cota,  the  remaining  nineteen 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


136 


ON  ROCINANTE. 

I am  that  Rocinante  fa — , 
Great-grandson  of  great  Babie — 

Who,  all  for  being  lean  and  bon — , 

Had  one  Don  Quixote  for  an  own — ; 
But  if  I matched  him  well  in  weak — , 

I never  took  short  commons  meek — , 
But  kept  myself  in  corn  by  steal — , 

A trick  I learned  from  Lazaril — , 

When  with  a piece  of  straw  so  neat — 
The  blind  man  of  his  wine  he  cheat — .2 


ORLANDO  FURIOSO 
To  Don  Quixote  of  La  Mancha. 

SONNET. 

If  thou  art  not  a Peer,  peer  thou  hast  none ; 3 
Among  a thousand  Peers  thou  art  a peer; 

Nor  is  there  room  for  one  when  thou  art  near, 
Unvanquished  victor,  great  unconquered  one  ! 
Orlando,  by  Angelica  undone, 

Am  I ; o’er  distant  seas  condemned  to  steer, 
And  to  Fame’s  altars  as  an  offering  bear 
Valor  respected  by  Oblivion. 


being  by  Fernando  Rojas.  There  is  no  mention  in  it  of  “ Villadiego  the 
Silent;  ” the  name  only  appears  in  the  proverbial  saying  about  “ taking  the 
breeches  of  Villadiego,”  i.e.  beating  a hasty  retreat. 

* Babieca,  the  famous  charger  of  the  Cid. 

2 An  allusion  to  the  charming  little  novel  of  Lazarillo  de  Tormes,  and 
the  trick  by  which  the  hero  secured  a share  of  his  master’s  wine. 

3 The  play  upon  the  word  “ Peer”  is  justified  by  Orlando’s  rank  as  one 
of  the  Twelve  Peers.  This  sonnet  is  pronounced  “ truly  unintelligible  and 


COMMENDATORY  VERSES. 


137 


I cannot  be  thy  rival,  for  thy  fame 
And  prowess  rise  above  all  rivalry, 

Albeit  both  bereft  of  wits  we  go. 

But,  though  the  Scythian  or  the  Moor  to  tame 
Was  not  thy  lot,  still  thou  dost  rival  me  ; 
Love  binds  us  in  a fellowship  of  woe. 


THE  KNIGHT  OF  PHCEBUS  ‘ 

To  Don  Quixote  of  La  Mancha. 

My  sword  was  not  to  be  compared  with  thine, 
Phoebus  of  Spain,  marvel  of  courtesy, 

Nor  with  thy  famous  arm  this  hand  of  mine 
That  smote  from  east  to  west  as  lightnings  fly. 
I scorned  all  empire,  and  that  monarchy 
The  rosy  east  held  out  did  I resign 
For  one  glance  of  Claridiana’s  eye. 

The  bright  Aurora  for  whose  love  I pine. 

A miracle  of  constancy  my  love ; 

And  banished  by  her  ruthless  cruelty, 


bad  ” by  Clemencin,  and  it  is,  it  must  be  confessed,  very  feeble  and  obscure. 
I have  adopted  a suggestion  of  Hartzenbusch’s  which  makes  somewhat  better 
sense  of  the  concluding  lines,  but  no  emendation  can  do  much.  Nor  are 
the  remaining  sonnets  much  better;  there  is  some  drollery  in  the  dialogue 
between  Babieca  and  Rocinante,  but  the  sonnets  of  the  Knight  of  Phoebus 
and  Solisdan  are  weak.  There  was  no  particular  call  for  Cervantes  to  be 
funny,  but  if  he  thought  otherwise  it  would  have  been  just  as  well  not  to 
leave  the  fun  out. 

^ The  Knight  of  Phoobus,  or  of  the  Sun  — Caballero  del  Febo,  espejo  de 
Principes  y Caballeros  — a ponderous  romance  by  Diego  Ortunez  de  Cala- 
horra  and  Marcos  Martinez,  in  four  parts,  the  first  printed  at  Saragossa  lu 
1562,  the  others  at  Alcald  de  Henares  in  1580. 


•38 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


This  arm  had  might  the  rage  of  Hell  to  tame. 
But,  Gothic  Quixote,  happier  thou  dost  prove, 

For  thou  dost  live  in  Dulcinea’s  name. 

And  famous,  honored,  wise,  she  lives  in  thee. 


FROM  SOLISDAN* 

To  Don  Quixote  of  La  Mancha. 

SONNET. 

Your  fantasies,  Sir  Quixote,  it  is  true. 

That  crazy  brain  of  yours  have  quite  upset. 

But  aught  of  base  or  mean  hath  never  yet 
Been  charged  by  any  in  reproach  to  you. 

Your  deeds  are  open  proof  in  all  men’s  view  ; 

For  you  went  forth  injustice  to  abate. 

And  for  your  pains  sore  drubbings  did  you  get 
From  many  a rascally  and  ruffian  crew. 

If  the  fair  Dulcinea,  your  heart’s  queen, 

Be  unrelenting  in  her  cruelty. 

If  still  your  woe  be  powerless  to  move  her. 

In  such  hard  case  your  comfort  let  it  be 
That  Sancho  was  a sorry  go-between : 

A booby  he,  hard-hearted  she,  and  you  no  lover. 


* Solisdan  is  apparently  a name  invented  by  Cervantes,  for  no  such  per- 
sonage figures  in  any  known  book  of  chivalry. 


COMMEND  A TOR  V VERSES. 


39 


DIALOGUE 

Between  Babieca  and  Rocinante. 

SONNET, 

f}.  “ How  comes  it,  Rocinante,  you’re  so  lean?” 

R.  “ I’m  underfed,  with  overwork  I’m  worn.” 

/).  “ But  what  becomes  of  all  the  hay  and  corn  ? ” 

R.  “ My  master  gives  me  none  ; he’s  much  too  mean.” 

B.  “ Come,  come,  you  show  ill-breeding,  sir,  I ween  ; 

’Tis  like  an  ass  your  master  thus  to  scorn.” 

R.  “ He  is  an  ass,  will  die  an  ass,  an  ass  was  born ; 

Why,  he’s  in  love  ; what’s  plainer  to  be  seen  ? ” 

B.  “To  be  in  love  is  folly?”  — R.  “No  great  sense.” 

B.  “ You’re  metaphysical.”  — R.  “ From  want  of  food.” 
B.  “Rail  at  the  squire,  then.”  — R.  “ Why,  what’s  the 
good  ? 

I might  indeed  complain  of  him,  I grant  ye. 

But,  squire  or  master,  where’s  the  difference  ? 
They’re  both  as  sorry  hacks  as  Rocinante.” 


u ' 


CHAPTER  I. 

WHICH  TREATS  OF  THE  CHARACTER  AND  PURSUITS  OF  THE 
FAMOUS  GENTLEMAN  DON  QUIXOTE  OF  LA  MANCHA. 

In  a village  of  La  Mancha,  the  name  of  which  I have 
no  desire  to  call  to  mind,^  there  lived  not  long  since 
one  of  those  gentlemen  that  keep  a lance  in  the  lance- 
rack,  an  old  buckler,  a lean  hack,  and  a greyhound  for 
coursing.  An  olla  of  rather  more  beef  than  mutton, 
a salad  on  most  nights,  scraps  on  Saturdays,^  lentils  on 


* See  Introduction,  p.  47. 

2 The  national  dish,  the  olla,  of  which  the  puchero  of  Central  and  Northern 
Spain  is  a poor  relation,  is  a stew  with  beef,  bacon,  sausage,  chick-peas,  and 
cabbage  for  its  prime  constituents,  and  for  ingredients  any  other  meat  or  vege- 
table that  may  be  available.  There  is  nothing  exceptional  in  Don  Quixote’s 
olla  being  more  a beef  than  a mutton  one,  for  mutton  is  scarce  in  Spain 
except  in  the  mountain  districts.  Salplcon  (salad)  is  meat  minced  with  red 
peppers,  onions,  oil,  and  vinegar,  and  is  in  fact  a sort  of  meat  salad.  Duelos 
y quebrantos,  the  title  of  the  Don’s  Saturday  dish,  would  be  a puzzle  even  to 
the  majority  of  Spanish  readers  were  it  not  for  Pellicer’s  explanation.  In  the 
cattle-feeding  districts  of  Spain,  the  carcasses  of  animals  that  came  to  an  un- 
timely end  were  converted  into  salt  meat,  and  the  parts  unfit  for  that  purpose 
were  sold  cheap  under  the  name  of  duelos  y qitebranios  — ‘ sorrows  and  losses  ’ 
(literally  ‘ breakings  ’)  and  were  held  to  be  sufficiently  unlike  meat  to  be  eaten 
on  days  when  flesh  was  forbidden,  among  which  in  Castile  Saturday  was  in- 
cluded in  commemoration  of  the  battle  of  Navas  de  Tolosa.  Any  rendering 
of  such  a phrase  must  necessarily  be  unsatisfactory,  and  in  adopting  ‘ scraps  ’ 
I have,  as  in  the  other  cases,  merely  gone  on  the  principle  of  choosing  the 
least  of  evils. 

141 


142 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


Fridays,  and  a pigeon  or  so  extra  on  Sundays,  made 
away  with  three-quarters  of  his  income.  The  rest  of 
it  went  in  a doublet  of  fine  cloth  and  velvet  breeches 
and  shoes  to  match  for  holidays,  while  on  week-days 
he  made  a brave  figure  in  his  best  homespun.  He  had 
in  his  house  a housekeeper  past  forty,  a niece  under 
twenty,  and  a lad  for  the  field  and  market-place,  who 
used  to  saddle  the  hack  as  well  as  handle  the  bill-hook. 
The  age  of  this  gentleman  of  ours  was  bordering  on 
fifty ; he  was  of  a hardy  habit,  spare,  gaunt-featured, 
a very  early  riser  and  a great  sportsman.  They  will 
have  it  his  surname  was  Quixada  or  Quesada  (for  here 
there  is  some  difference  of  opinion  among  the  authors 
who  write  on  the  subject),  although  from  reasonable 
conjectures  it  seems  plain  that  he  was  called  Quixana. 
This,  however,  is  of  but  little  importance  to  our  tale  ; 
it  will  be  enough  not  to  stray  a hair’s  breadth  from  the 
truth  in  the  telling  of  it. 

You  must  know,  then,  that  the  above-named  gen- 
tleman whenever  he  was  at  leisure  (which  was  mostly 
all  the  year  round)  gave  himself  up  to  reading  books 
of  chivalry  with  such  ardor  and  avidity  that  he  almost 
entirely  neglected  the  pursuit  of  his  field-sports,  and 
even  the  management  of  his  property ; and  to  such  a 
pitch  did  his  eagerness  and  infatuation  go  that  he  sold 
many  an  acre  of  tillage-land  to  buy  books  of  chivalry 
to  read,  and  brought  home  as  many  of  them  as  he 
could  get.  But  of  all  there  were  none  he  liked  so 
well  as  those  of  the  famous  Feliciano  de  Silva’s  com- 
position, for  their  lucidity  of  style  and  complicated 


CHAPTER  /. 


143 


conceits  were  as  pearls  in  his  sight,  particularly  when 
in  his  reading  he  came  upon  courtships  and  cartels, 
where  he  often  found  passages  like  ‘‘  the  reason  of  the 
inireaso7i  with  which  my  reason  is  afflicted  so  weakens 
tny  reason  that  with  reason  I murmur  at  your  beauty  ; ” 
or  again,  “ the  high  Jieavens,  that  of  your  divinity  di- 
vinely fortify  you  with  the  stars,  7'ender  you  deserving 
of  the  desert  your  g/'eatness  deserves T ‘ Over  conceits 
of  this  sort  the  poor  gentleman  lost  his  wits,  and  used 
to  lie  awake  striving  to  understand  them  and  worm 
the  meaning  out  of  them ; what  Aristotle  himself 
could  not  have  made  out  or  extracted  had  he  come 
to  life  again  for  that  special  purpose.  He  was  not  at 
all  easy  about  the  wounds  which  Don  Belianis  ^ gave 
and  took,  because  it  seemed  to  him  that,  great  as  were 
the  surgeons  who  had  cured  him,  he  must  have  had 
his  face  and  body  covered  all  over  with  seams  and 
scars.  He  commended,  however,  the  author’s  way 
of  ending  his  book  with  the  promise  of  that  inter- 
minable adventure,  and  many  a time  was  he  tempted 
to  take  up  his  pen  and  finish  it  properly  as  is  there 
proposed,  which  no  doubt  he  would  have  done, 
and  made  a successful  piece  of  work  of  it  too,  had 

* The  first  passage  quoted  is  from  the  Chrotiicle  of  Don  Florisel  de 
Miqnea,  by  Feliciano  de  Silva,  the  volumes  of  which  appeared  in  1532, 
1536,  and  1551,  and  form  the  tenth  and  eleventh  books  of  the  Amadis  series. 
The  second  is  from  Oltvajtte  de  Laura,  hy  Torquemada  (1564).  Clemen- 
cin  points  out  that  the  first  passage  had  been  previously  picked  out  as  a 
sample  of  the  absurdity  of  the  school,  by  Diego  Hurtado  de  Mendoza. 

“ The  History  of  Don  Belianis  de  Grecia,  by  the  Licentiate  Jeronimo 
Fernandez,  1547.  It  has  been  by  some  included  in  the  Amadis  series,  but 
it  is  in  reality  an  independent  romance. 


144 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


not  greater  and  more  absorbing  thoughts  prevented 
him. 

Many  an  argument  did  he  have  with  the  curate 
of  his  village  (a  learned  man,  and  a graduate  of 
Siguenza  ')  as  to  which  had  been  the  better  knight, 
Palmerin  of  England  or  Amadis  of  Gaul.  Master 
Nicholas,  the  village  barber,  however,  used  to  say  that 
neither  of  them  came  up  to  the  Knight  of  Phoebus, 
and  that  if  there  was  any  that  could  compare  with 
him  it  was  Don  Galaor,  the  brother  of  Amadis  of 
Gaul,  because  he  had  a spirit  that  was  equal  to  every 
occasion,  and  was  no  finikin  knight,  nor  lachrymose 
like  his  brother,  while  in  the  matter  of  valor  he  was 
not  a whit  behind  him.  In  short,  he  became  so  ab- 
sorbed in  his  books  that  he  spent  his  nights  from  sun- 
set to  sunrise,  and  his  days  from  dawn  to  dark,  poring 
over  them ; and  what  with  little  sleep  and  much  read- 
ing his  brains  got  so  dry  that  he  lost  his  wits.  His 
fancy  grew  full  of  what  he  used  to  read  about  in 
his  books,  enchantments,  quarrels,  battles,  challenges, 
wounds,  wooings,  loves,  agonies,  and  all  sorts  of  im- 
possible nonsense ; and  it  so  possessed  his  mind  that 
the  whole  fabric  of  invention  and  fancy  he  read  of 
was  true,  that  to  him  no  history  in  the  world  had 
more  reality  in  it.  He  used  to  say  the  Cid  Ruy  Diaz 
was  a very  good  knight,  but  that  he  was  not  to  be  com- 
pared with  the  Knight  of  the  Burning  Sword  who  with 
one  back-stroke  cut  in  half  two  fierce  and  monstrous 

* Siguenza  was  one  of  the  Universidades  jnenores,  the  degrees  of  which 
were  often  laughed  at  by  the  Spanish  humorists. 


C//APTES!  L 


145 


giants.  He  thought  more  of  Bernardo  del  Carpio 
because  at  Roncesvalles  he  slew  Roland  in  spite  of 
enchantments,'  availing  himself  of  the  artifice  of  Her- 
cules when  he  strangled  Antaeus  the  son  of  Terra  in 
his  arms.  He  approved  highly  of  the  giant  Morgante, 
because,  although  of  the  giant  breed  which  is  always 
arrogant  and  ill-conditioned,  he  alone  was  affable  and 
well-bred.  But  above  all  he  admired  Reinaldos  of 
Montalban,  especially  when  he  saw  him  sallying  forth 
from  his  castle  and  robbing  every  one  he  met,  and 
when  beyond  the  seas  he  stole  that  image  of  Mahomet 
which,  as  his  history  says,  was  entirely  of  gold.  And 
to  have  a bout  of  kicking  at  that  traitor  of  a Ganelon 
he  would  have  given  his  housekeeper,  and  his  niece 
into  the  bargain.^^ 

In  short,  his  wits  being  quite  gone,  he  hit  upon  the 
strangest  notion  that  ever  madman  in  this  world  hit 
upon,  and  that  was  that  he  fancied  it  was  right  and 
requisite,  as  well  for  the  support  of  his  own  honor  as 
for  the  service  of  his  country,  that  he  should  make  a 
knight-errant  of  himself,  roaming  the  world  over  in 
full  armor  and  on  horseback  in  quest  of  adventures, 
and  putting  in  practice  himself  all  that  he  had  read 

* The  Spanish  tradition  of  the  battle  of  Roncesvalles  is,  of  course,  at 
variance  with  the  Chanson  de  Roland,  but  it  is  somewhat  nearer  historical 
truth,  inasmuch  as  the  slaughter  of  Roland  and  the  rearguard  of  Charle- 
magne’s army  was  effected  not  by  Saracens,  but  by  the  Basque  mountaineers. 

2 Ganelon,  the  arch-traitor  of  the  Charlemagne  legend.  In  Spanish  he 
appears  as  Galalon,  in  Italian  as  Gano;  but  in  this  as  in  the  cases  of  Roland, 
Baldwin,  and  others,  I have  thought  it  best  to  give  the  name  in  the  form  in 
which  it  is  best  known,  and  will  be  most  readily  recognized,  instead  of  Roldan, 
Valdovinos,  etc. 


[46 


DOM  QUIXOTE. 


of  as  being  the  usual  practices  of  knights-errant ; 
righting  every  kind  of  wrong,  and  exposing  himself 
to  peril  and  danger  from  which,  in  the  issue,  he  was  to 
reap  eternal  renown  and  fame.  Already  the  poor  man 
saw  himself  crowned  by  the  might  of  his  arm  Emperor 
of  Trebizond  ' at  least ; and  so,  led  away  by  the  intense 
enjoyment  he  found  in  these  pleasant  fancies,  he  set 
himself  forthwith  to  put  his  scheme  into  execution. 

The  first  thing  he  did  was  to  clean  up  some  armor 
that  had  belonged  to  his  great-grandfather,  and  had 
been  for  ages  lying  forgotten  in  a corner  eaten  with 
rust  and  covered  with  mildew.  He  scoured  and 
polished  it  as  best  he  could,  but  he  perceived  one 
great  defect  in  it,  that  it  had  no  closed  helmet,  noth- 
ing but  a simple  morion.^  This  deficiency,  however, 
his  ingenuity  supplied,  for  he  contrived  a kind  of 
half-helmet  of  pasteboard  which,  fitted  on  to  the 
morion,  looked  like  a whole  one.  It  is  true  that,  in 
order  to  see  if  it  was  strong  and  fit  to  stand  a cut,  he 
drew  his  sword  and  gave  it  a couple  of  slashes,  the 
first  of  which  undid  in  an  instant  what  had  taken  him 
a week  to  do.  The  ease  with  which  he  had  knocked 
it  to  pieces  disconcerted  him  somewhat,  and  to  guard 
against  that  danger  he  set  to  work  again,  fixing  bars 
of  iron  on  the  inside  until  he  was  satisfied  with  its 
strength ; and  then,  not  caring  to  try  any  more  ex- 
periments with  it,  he  passed  it  and  adopted  it  as  a 
helmet  of  the  most  perfect  construction. 


Like  Reinaldos  or  Rinaldo,  who  came  to  be  Emperor  of  Trebizond. 
That  is,  a simple  head-piece  without  either  visor  or  beaver. 


CHAPTER  /. 


147 


He  next  proceeded  to  inspect  his  hack,  which,  with 
more  quartos  than  a real  * and  more  blemishes  than 
the  steed  of  Gonela,  that  “ tantiiin  pellis  et  ossa  fuitp 
surpassed  in  his  eyes  the  Bucephalus  of  Alexander  or 
the  Babieca  of  the  Cid.  Four  days  were  spent  in 
thinking  what  name  to  give  him,  because  (as  he  said 
to  himself)  it  was  not  right  that  a horse  belonging  to 
a knight  so  famous,  and  one  with  such  merits  of  his 
own,  should  be  without  some  distinctive  name,  and 
he  strove  to  adapt  it  so  as  to  indicate  what  he  had 
been  before  belonging  to  a knight-errant,  and  what 
he  then  was ; for  it  was  only  reasonable  that,  his 
master  taking  a new  character,  he  should  take  a new 
name,  and  that  it  should  be  a distinguished  and  full- 
sounding one,  befitting  the  new  order  and  calling  he 
was  about  to  follow.  And  so,  after  having  composed, 
struck  out,  rejected,  added  to,  unmade,  and  remade 
a multitude  of  names  out  of  his  memory  and  fancy, 
he  decided  upon  calling  him  Rocinante,  a name,  to 
his  thinking,  lofty,  sonorous,  and  significant  of  his 
condition  as  a hack  before  he  became  what  he  now 
was,  the  first  and  foremost  of  all  the  hacks  in  the 
world.^ 


* An  untranslatable  pun  on  the  word  “ quarto,”  which  means  a sand- 
crack  in  a horse’s  hoof,  as  well  as  the  coin  equal  to  one-eighth  of  the  real. 
Gonela,  or  Gonnella,  was  a jester  in  the  service  of  Borso,  Duke  of  Ferrara 
(1450-1470).  A book  of  the  jests  attributed  to  him  was  printed  in  1568,  the 
year  before  Cervantes  went  to  Italy. 

2 “ Rocin  ” is  a horse  employed  in  labor,  as  distinguished  from  one  kept 
for  pleasure,  the  chase,  or  personal  use  generally;  the  word  therefore  may 
fairly  be  translated  “ hack.”  “ Ante  ” is  an  old  form  of  “ Antes  ” = “ before,” 
whether  in  time  or  in  order. 


148 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


Having  got  a name  for  his  horse  so  much  to  his 
taste,  he  was  anxious  to  get  one  for  himself,  and  he 
was  eight  days  more  pondering  over  this  point,  till 
at  last  he  made  up  his  mind  to  call  himself  Don 
Quixote,’  whence,  as  has  been  already  said,  the 
authors  of  this  veracious  history  have  inferred  that  his 
name  must  have  been  beyond  a doubt  Quixada,  and 
not  Quesada  as  others  would  have  it.  Recollecting, 
however,  that  the  valiant  Amadis  was  not  content  to 
call  himself  curtly  Amadis  and  nothing  more,  but 
added  the  name  of  his  kingdom  and  country  to  make 
it  famous,  and  called  himself  Amadis  of  Gaul,  he,  like 
a good  knight,  resolved  to  add  on  the  name  of  his, 
and  to  style  himself  Don  Quixote  of  La  Mancha, 
whereby,  he  considered,  he  described  accurately  his 
origin  and  country,  and  did  honor  to  it  in  taking  his 
surname  from  it. 

So  then,  his  armor  being  furbished,  his  morion 
turned  into  a helmet,  his  hack  christened,  and  he 
himself  confirmed,  he  came  to  the  conclusion  that 
nothing  more  was  needed  now  but  to  look  out  for  a 
lady  to  be  in  love  with ; for  a knight-errant  without 
love  was  like  a tree  without  leaves  or  fruit,  or  a body 
without  a soul.  As  he  said  to  himself,  “ If,  for  my 


* Quixote  — or,  as  it  is  now  written,  Quijote  — means  the  piece  of  armor 
that  protects  the  thigh  {cnissau,  ciiish).  Smollett’s  “ Sir  Lancelot  Greaves  ” 
is  a kind  of  parody  on  the  name.  Quixada  and  Quesada  were  both  distin- 
guished family  names.  The  Governor  of  the  Goletta,  who  was  one  of  the 
passengers  on  board  the  unfortunate  Sol  galley,  was  a Quesada;  and  the 
faithful  major-domo  of  Charles  V.  and  guardian  of  Don  John  of  Austria  was 
a Quixada. 


CHAP'/'ER  /. 


149 


sins,  or  by  my  good  fortune,  I come  across  some 
giant  hereabouts,  a common  occurrence  with  knights- 
errant,  and  overthrow  him  in  one  onslaught,  or  cleave 
him  asunder  to  the  waist,  or,  in  short,  vanquish  and 
subdue  him,  will  it  not  be  well  to  have  some  one  I 
may  send  him  to  as  a present,  that  he  may  come  in 
and  fall  on  his  knees  before  my  sweet  lady,  and  in  a 
humble,  submissive  voice  say,  ‘ I am  the  giant  Cara- 
culiambro,  lord  of  the  island  of  Malindrania,  van- 
quished in  single  combat  by  the  never  sufficiently 
extolled  knight  Don  Quixote  of  La  Mancha,  who  has 
commanded  me  to  present  myself  before  your  Grace, 
that  your  Highness  dispose  of  me  at  your  pleasure?  ’ ” 
Oh,  how  our  good  gentleman  enjoyed  the  delivery  of 
this  speech,  especially  when  he  had  thought  of  some 
one  to  call  his  Lady  ! There  was,  so  the  story  goes, 
in  a village  near  his  own^a  very  good-looking  farm-girl 
with  whom  he  had  been  at  one  time  in  love,  though, 
so  far  as  is  known,  she  never  knew  it  nor  gave  a 
thought  to  the  matter.  Her  name  was  Aldonza 
Lorenzo,  and  upon  her  he  thought  fit  to  confer  the 
title  of  Lady  of  his  Thoughts ; and  after  some  search 
for  a name  which  should  not  be  out  of  harmony  with 
her  own,  and  should  suggest  and  indicate  that  of  a 
princess  and  great  lady,  he  decided  upon  calling  her 
Dulcinea  del  Toboso  — she  being  of  El  Toboso  — a 
name,  to  his  mind,  musical,  uncommon,  and  signifi- 
cant, like  all  those  he  had  already  bestowed  upon 
himself  and  the  things  belonging  to  him. 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


150 


/ 


CHAPTER  II. 

WHICH  TREATS  OF  THE  FIRST  SALLY  THE  INGENIOUS 
DON  QUIXOTE  MADE  FROM  HOME. 

These  preliminaries  settled,  he  did  not  care  to  put 
off  any  longer  the  execution  of  his  design,  urged  on 
to  it  by  the  thought  of  all  the  world  was  losing  by  his 
delay,  seeing  what  wrongs  he  intended  to  right,  griev- 
ances to  redress,  injustices  to  repair,  abuses  to  remove, 
and  duties  to  discharge.  So,  without  giving  notice  of 
his  intention  to  any  one,  and  without  anybody  seeing 
him,  one  morning  before  the  dawning  of  the  day 
(which  was  one  of  the  hottest  of  the  month  of  July) 
he  donned  his  suit  of  armor,  mounted  Rocinante  with 
his  patched-up  helmet  on,  braced  his  buckler,  took  his 
lance,  and  by  the  back  door  of  the  yard  sallied  forth 
upon  the  plain  in  the  highest  contentment  and  satis- 
faction at  seeing  with  what  ease  he  had  made  a begin- 
ning with  his  grand  purpose.  But  scarcely  did  he  fintl 
himself  upon  the  open  plain,  when  a terrible  thought 
struck  him,  one  all  but  enough  to  make  him  abandon 
the  enterprise  at  the  very  outset.  It  occurred  to  him 
that  he  had  not  been  dubbed  a knight,  and  that 
according  to  the  law  of  chivalry  he  neither  could  nor 
ought  to  bear  arms  against  any  knight ; and  that  even 


CHAPTER  11. 


151 

if  he  had  been,  still  he  ought,  as  a novice  knight,  to 
wear  white  armor,'  without  a device  upon  the  shield 
until  by  his  prowess  he  had  earned  one.  These  reflec- 
tions made  him  waver  in  his  purpose,  but  his  craze 
being  stronger  than  any  reasoning  he  made  up  his 
mind  to  have  himself  dubbed  a knight  by  the  first  one 
he  came  across,  following  the  example  of  others  in  the 
same  case,  as  he  had  read  in  the  books  that  brought 
him  to  this  pass.  As  for  white  armor,  he  resolved,  on 
the  first  opportunity,  to  scour  his  until  it  was  whiter 
than  an  ermine ; and  so  comforting  himself  he  pur- 
sued his  way,  taking  that  which  his  horse  chose,  for  in 
this  he  believed  lay  the  essence  of  adventures. 

Thus  setting  out,  our  new-fledged^  adventurer  paced 
along,  talking  to  himself  and  saying,  “ Who  knows  but 
that  in  time  to  come,  when  the  veracious  history  of 
my  famous  deeds  is  made  known,  the  sage  who  writes 
it,  when  he  has  to  set  forth  my  first  sally  in  the  early 
morning,  will  do  it  after  this  fashion?  ‘Scarce  had 
the  rubicund  Apollo  spread  o’er  the  face  of  the  broad 
spacious  earth  the  golden  threads  of  his  bright  hair, 
scarce  had  the  little  birds  of  painted  plumage  attuned 
their  notes  to  hail  with  dulcet  and  mellifluous  harmony 
the  coming  of  the  rosy  Dawn,  that,  deserting  the  soft 
couch  of  her  jealous  spouse,  was  appearing  to  mortals 
at  the  gates  and  balconies  of  the  Manchegan  horizon. 


^ Properly  “ blank  ” armor,  but  Don  Quixote  takes  the  word  in  its  common 
sense  of  white. 

2 Flamante.  Shelton  translates  “ burnished,”  and  Jervas  “ flaming,”  but 
the  secondary  meaning  of  the  word  is  “ new,”  “ fresh,”  “ unused.” 


152 


BOAT  QUIXOTE. 


when  the  renowned  knight  Don  Quixote  of  La  Mancha, 
quitting  the  lazy  down,  mounted  his  celebrated  steed 
Rocinante  and  began  to  traverse  the  ancient  and 
famous  Campo  de  Montiel ; ’ ” which  in  fact  he  was 
actually  traversing/  “ Happy  the  age,  happy  the 
time,”  he  continued,  ‘‘  in  which  shall  be  made  known 
my  deeds  of  fame,  worthy  to  be  moulded  in  brass, 
carved  in  marble,  limned  in  pictures,  for  a memorial 
forever.  And  thou,  O sage  magician,^  whoever  thou 
art,  to  whom  it  shall  fall  to  be  the  chronicler  of  this 
wondrous  history,  forget  not,  I entreat  thee,  my  good 
Rocinante,  the  constant  companion  of  my  ways  and 
wanderings.”  Presently  he  broke  out  again,  as  if  he 
were  love-stricken  in  earnest,  O Princess  Dulcinea, 
lady  of  this  captive  heart,  a grievous  wrong  hast  thou 
done  me  to  drive  me  forth  with  scorn,  and  with  in- 
exorable obduracy  banish  me  from  the  presence  of  thy 
beauty.  O lady,  deign  to  hold  in  remembrance  this 
heart,  thy  vassal,  that  thus  in  anguish  pines  for  love  of 
thee.” 

So  he  went  on  stringing  together  these  and  other 
absurdities,  all  in  the  style  of  those  his  books  had 
taught  him,  imitating  their  language  as  well  as  he 
could  ; and  all  the  while  he  rode  so  slowly  and  the  sun 


1 The  Campo  de  Montiel  was  “ famous  ” as  being  the  scene  of  the  battle, 
in  1369,  in  which  Pedro  the  Cruel  was  defeated  by  his  brother  Henry  of 
Trastamara  supported  by  Du  Guesclin.  The  actual  battle-field,  however,  lies 
some  considerable  distance  to  the  south  of  Argamasilla,  on  the  slope  of  the 
Sierra  Morena,  near  the  castle  of  Montiel  in  which  Pedro  took  refuge. 

2 In  the  later  romances  of  chivalry,  a sage  or  a magician  or  some  such 
personage  was  frequently  introduced  as  the  original  source  of  the  history. 


CHAPTER  //. 


153 


mounted  so  rapidly  and  with  such  fervor  that  it  was 
enough  to  melt  his  brains  if  he  had  any.  Nearly  all 
day  he  travelled  without  any  tiling  remarkable  hap- 
])ening  to  him,  at  which  he  was  in  despair,  for  he  was 
anxious  to  encounter  some  one  at  once  upon  whom  to 
try  the  might  of  his  strong  arm. 

Writers  there  are  who  say  the  first  adventure  he  met 
with  was  that  of  Puerto  Lapice  ; others  say  it  was  that 
of  the  windmills ; but  what  I have  ascertained  on  this 
point,  and  what  I have  found  written  in  the  annals  of 
La  Mancha,  is  that  he  was  on  the  road  all  day,  and 
towards  nightfall  his  hack  and  he  found  themselves 
dead  tired  and  hungry,  when,  looking  all  around  to  see 
if  he  could  discover  any  castle  or  shepherd's  shanty 
where  he  hiighTTelr^h  himself  and  relieve  his  sore 
wants,  he  perceived  not  far  out  of  his  road  an  inn,* 
which  was  as  welcome  as  a star  guiding  him  to  the 

portals,  if  not  the  palaces,  of  his  redemption ; and 
quickening  his  pace  he  reached  it  just  as  night  was 
setting  in.  At  the  door  were  standing  two  young 
women,  girls  of  the  district  as  thev~call  lliein,  on  llieir 
way  to  Seville  with  some  carriers  who  had  chanced  to 

halt  that  night  at  the  inn  ; and  as,  happen  what  might 

* In  Spain  there  are  at  least  half  a dozen  varieties  of  inns  each  with  its 
distinctive  name.  In  Don  Quixote  the  inn  is  almost  always  the  venta,  the 
solitary  roadside  inn  where  travellers  of  all  sorts  stop  to  bait;  and  it  has 
remained  to  this  day  much  what  Cervantes  has  described.  The  particular 
venta  that  he  had  in  his  eye  in  this  and  the  next  chapter  is  said  to  be  the 
Venta  de  Quesada,  about  25  leagues  north  of  Manzanares,  on  the  Madrid  and 
Seville  road.  ( V.  map.)  The  house  itself  was  burned  down  about  a century 
ago,  and  has  been  rebuilt,  but  the  yard  at  the  back  with  its  draw-well  and 
stone  trough  are  said  to  remain  as  they  were  in  his  day. 


154 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


to  our  adventurer,  every  thing  he  saw  or  imagined 
seemed  to  him  to  be  and  to  happen  after  the  fashion 
of  what  he  had  read  of,  the  moment  he  saw  the  inn  he 
pictured  it  to  himself  as  a castle  with  its  four  turrets 
and  pinnacles  of  shining  silver,  not  forgetting  the 
drawbridge  and  moat  and  all  the  belongings  usually 
ascribed  to  castles  of  the  sort.  To  this  inn,  which  to 
him  seemed  a castle,  he  advanced,  and  at  a short  dis- 
tance from  it  he  checked  Rocinante,  hoping  that  some 
dwarf  would  show  himself  upon  the  battlements,  and 
by  sound  of  trumpet  give  notice  that  a knight  was 
approaching  the  castle.  But  seeing  that  they  were 
slow  about  it,  and  that  Rocinante  was  in  a hurry  to 
reach  the  stable,  he  made  for  the  inn  door,  and 
perceived  the  two  gay  damsels  who  were  standing 
there,  and  who  seemed  to  him  to  be  two  fair  maid- 
ens or  lovely  ladies  taking  their  ease  at  the  castle 
gate. 

At  this  moment  it  so  happened  that  a swineherd 
who  was  going  through  the  stubbles  collecting  a drove 
of  pigs  (for,  without  any  apology,  that  is  what  they 
aje^calfed)  gave  a blast  of  his  horn  to  bring  them, 
together,  and  forthwith  it  seemed  to  Don  Quixote  to 
’'bF'What  henvaeT  expecting, llie  signal  of  some  dwarf 
announcing  his  arrival;  and  so  with  prodigious  satis- 
faction TieTddFupldTHe  inn  and  to  the  ladies,  who, 
seeing  a man  of  this  sort  approaching  in  full  armor 
and  with  lance  and  buckler,  were  turning  in  dismay 
into  the  inn,  when  Don  Quixote,  guessing  their  fear 
by  their  flight,  raising  his  pasteboard  visor,  disclosed 


CI/APTER  II. 


155 


his  dry,  dusty  visage,"  and  with  courteous  bearing  and 
gentle  voice  addressed  them,  “Your  ladyships  need 
not  fly  or  fear  any  rudeness,  for  that  it  belongs  not 
to  the  order  of  knighthood  which  I profess  to  offer  to 
any  one,  much  less  to  high-born  maidens  as  your 
appearance  proclaims  you  to  be.”  The  girls  were 
looking  at  him  and  straining  their  eyes  to  make  out 
the  features  which  the  clumsy  visor  obscured,  but 
when  they  heard  themselves  called  maidens,  a thing 
so  much  out  of  their  line,  they  could  not  restrain 
their  laughter,  which  made  Don  Quixote  wax  indig- 
nant, and  say,  “ Modesty  becomes  the  fair,  and  more- 
over laughter  that  has  little  cause  is  great  silliness ; 
this,  however,  I say  not  to  pain  or  anger  you,  for  my 
desire  is  none  other  than  to  serve  you.” 

The  incomprehensible  language  and  the  unprom- 
ising looks  of  our  cavalier  only  increased  the  ladies’ 
laughter,  and  that  increased  his  irritation,  and  matters 
might  have  gone  farther  if  at  that  moment  the  land- 
lord had  not  come  out,  wTo,  being  a very  fat  man, 
was  a very  peaceful  one.  He,  seeing  this  grotesque 
figure  clad  in  armor  that  did  not  match  any  more 
than  his  saddle,  bridle,  lance,  buckler,  or  corselet, 
was  not  at  all  indisposed  to  join  the  damsels  in  their 


* The  commentators  are  somewhat  exercised  by  the  contradiction  here. 
If  Don  Quixote  raised  his  visor  and  disclosed  his  visage,  how  was  it  that  the 
girls  were  unable  “ to  make  out  the  features  which  the  clumsy  visor  ob- 
scured ” ? Cervantes  probably  was  thinking  of  the  make-shift  pasteboard 
visor  {inala  visera,  as  he  calls  it),  which  could  not  be  put  up  completely, 
and  so  kept  the  face  behind  it  in  the  shade.  Hartzenbusch,  however,  believes 
the  words  to  have  been  interpolated,  and  omits  them. 


56 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


manifestations  of  amusement ; but,  in  truth,  standing 
in  awe  of  such  a complicated  armament,  he  thought 
it  best  to  speak  him  fairly,  so  he  said,  ‘‘  Senor  Caba- 
llero, if  your  worship  wants  lodging,  bating  the  bed 
(for  there  is  not  one  in  the  inn)  there  is  plenty  of 
every  thing  else  here.”  Don  Quixote,  observing  the 
respectful  bearing  of  the  Alcaide  of  the  fortress  (for 
so  innkeeper  and  inn  seemed  in  his  eyes),  made 
answer,  ‘‘  Sir  Castellan,  for  me  any  thing  will  suffice, 
for 


My  armor  is  my  only  wear, 
My  only  rest  the  fray.” 


The  host  fancied  he  called  him  Castellan  because  he 
took  him  for  a “ worthy  of  Castile,”  ‘ though  he  was 
in  fact  an  Andalusian,  and  one  from  the  Strand  of 
San  Lucar,  as  crafty  a thief  as  Cacus  and  as  full 
of  tricks  as  a student  or  a page.  In  that  case,” 
said  he, 

“Your  bed  is  on  the  flinty  rock, 

Your  sleep  to  watch  alway ; ^ 


* Sano  de  Castilla  — a slang  phrase  from  the  Germania  dialect  for  a 
thief  in  disguise  {ladron  disunulado — Vocabnlario  de  Gertnania  de 
Hidalgo).  “ Castellano  ” and  “ alcaide  ” both  mean  governor  of  a castle  or 
fortress,  but  the  former  means  also  a Castilian. 

2 The  lines  quoted  by  Don  Quixote  and  the  host  are,  in  the  original; 

“ Mis  arreos  son  las  armas. 

Mi  descanso  el  pclear. 

Mi  cama,  las  duras  penas. 

Mi  dormir,  siempre  velar.” 

They  occur  first  in  the  old,  probably  fourteenth  century,  ballad  of  Mariana 
en  UH  Castillo,  and  were  afterwards  adopted  as  the  beginning  of  a serenade. 


CHAPTER  IL 


157 


and  if  so,  you  may  dismount  and  safely  reckon  upon 
any  quantity  of  sleeplessness  under  this  roof  for  a 
twelvemonth,  not  to  say  for  a single  night.”  So  say- 
ing, he  advanced  to  hold  the  stirrup  for  Don  Quixote, 
who  got  down  with  great  difficulty  and  exertion  (for 
he  had  not  broken  his  fast  all  day),  and  then  charged 
the  host  to  take  great  care  of  his  horse,  as  he  was  the 
best  bit  of  flesh  that  ever  ate  bread  in  this  world. 
The  landlord  eyed  him  over,  but  did  not  find  him  as 
good  as  Don  Quixote  said,  nor  even  half  as  good ; 
and  putting  him  up  in  the  stable,  he  returned  to  see 
what  might  be  wanted  by  his  guest,  whom  the  dam- 
sels, who  had  by  this  time  made  their  peace  with  him, 
were  now  relieving  of  his  armor.  They  had  taken 
off  his  breastplate  and  backpiece,  but  they  neither 
knew  nor  saw  how  to  open  his  gorget  or  remove  his 
make-shift  helmet,  for  he  had  fastened  it  with  green 
ribbons,  which,  as  there  was  no  untying  the  knots, 
required  to  be  cut.  This,  however,  he  would  not  by 
any  means  consent  to,  so  he  remained  all  the  evening 
with  his  helmet  on,  the  drollest  and  oddest  figure 
that  can  be  imagined  ; and  while  they  were  removing 
his  armor,  taking  the  baggages  who  were  about  it  for 
ladies  of  high  degree  belonging  to  the  castle,  he  said 
to  them  with  great  sprightliness  : 


In  England  it  would  be  a daring  improbability  to  represent  tbe  landlord  of 
a roadside  alehouse  capping  verses  with  his  guest  out  of  Chevy  Chase  or  Sir 
Andreiv  Barton,  but  in  Spain  familiarity  with  the  old  national  ballad-poetry 
and  proverbs  is  an  accomplishment  that  may,  even  to  this  day,  be  met  with 
in  quarters  quite  as  unpromising. 


58 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


“ Oh,  never,  surely,  was  there  knight 
So  served  by  hand  of  dame. 

As  served  was  he,  Don  Quixote  hight, 

When  from  his  town  he  came ; 

With  maidens  waiting  on  himself, 

Princesses  on  his  hack  * — 

— or  Rocinante,  for  that,  ladies  mine,  is  my  horse’s 
name,  and  Don  Quixote  of  La  Mancha  is  my  own ; 
for  though  I had  no  intention  of  declaring  myself 
until  my  achievements  in  your  service  and  honor  had 
made  me  known,  the  necessity  of  adapting  that  old  bal- 
lad of  Lancelot  to  the  present  occasion  has  given  you 
the  knowledge  of  my  name  altogether  prematurely. 
A time,  however,  will  come  for  your  ladyships  to  com- 
mand and  me  to  obey,  and  then  the  might  of  my 
arm  will  show  my  desire  to  serve  you.” 

The  girls,  who  were  not  used  to  hearing  rhetoric  of 
this  sort,  had  nothing  to  say  in  reply  : they  only  asked 
him  if  he  wanted  any  thing  to  eat.  “ I would  gladly 
eat  a bit  of  something,”  said  Don  Quixote,  “ for  I 
feel  it  would  come  very  seasonably.”  The  day  hap- 
pened to  be  a Friday,  and  in  the  whole  inn  there  was 
nothing  but  some  pieces  of  the  fish  they  call  in  Castile 
“ abadejo,”  in  Andalusia  “ bacallao,”  and  in  some 
places  “ curadillo,”  and  in  others  “ troutlet ; ” so  they 
asked  him  if  he  thought  he  could  eat  troutlet,  for 
there  was  no  other  fish  to  give  him.  “If  there  be 


* A parody  of  the  opening  lines  of  the  ballad  of  Laftcclot  of  the  Lake. 
Their  chief  attraction  for  Cervantes  was,  no  doubt,  the  occurrence  of  rocttto 
{roc/fi)  in  the  last  line. 


Cl/ AFTER  II. 


159 


troutlets  enough,”  said  Don  Quixote,  ‘^they  will  be 
the  same  thing  as  a trout ; for  it  is  all  one  to  me 
whether  I am  given  eight  reals  in  small  change  or  a 
piece  of  eight ; moreover,  it  may  be  that  these  trout- 
lets  are  like  veal,  which  is  better  than  beef,  or  kid, 
which  is  better  than  goat.  But  whatever  it  be  let  it 
come  quickly,  for  the  burden  and  pressure  of  arms 
cannot  be  borne  without  support  to  the  inside.” 
They  laid  a table  for  him  at  the  door  of  the  inn 
for  the  sake  of  the  air,  and  the  host  brought  him  a 
portion  of  ill-soaked  and  worse  cooked  stockfish,  and 
a piece  of  bread  as  black  and  mouldy  as  his  own 
armor ; but  a laughable  sight  it  was  to  see  him  eat- 
ing, for  having  his  helmet  on  and  the  beaver  up,'  he 
could  not  with  his  own  hands  put  any  thing  into  his 
mouth  unless  some  one  else  placed  it  there,  and  this 
service  one  of  the  ladies  rendered  him.  But  to  give 
him  any  thing  to  drink  was  impossible,  or  would  have 
been  so  had  not  the  landlord  bored  a reed,  and  put- 
ting one  end  in  his  mouth  poured  the  wine  into  him 
through  the  other ; all  which  he  bore  with  patience 
rather  than  sever  the  ribbons  of  his  helmet. 

While  this  was  going  on  there  came  up  to  the  inn 
a sow-gelder.  who,  as  he  approached,  sounded  his 
reed  pipe  four  or  five  times,  and  thereby  completely 

convinced  Don  Quixote  that  he  was  in  some  famous 

I The  original  has,  la  visera  alzatia,  “ the  visor  up,”  in  which  case  Don 
Quixote  would  have  found  no  difficulty  in  feeding  himself.  Hartzenbusch 
suggests  baberay  beaver,  which  I have  adopted,  as  it  removes  the  difficulty, 
and  is  consistent  with  what  follows;  when  the  landlord  “ poured  wine  into 
him  ” it  must  have  been  over  the  beaver,  not  U7ider  the  visor. 


i6o 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


castle,  and  that  they  were  regaling  him  with  music, 
and  thaFtKe"  stockfish  was  trout,  the  breaHthe jv^test, 
the  wenches  ladies,  and  the  landlord  the  castellan  of 
the~ castle  ; and  consequently  he  held  tharih^  enter- 
prise and  sally  had  been  to  some  purpose.  But  still 
it  distressed  him  to  think  he  had  not  been  dubbed 
a knight,  for  it  was  plain  to  him  he  could  not  lawfully 
engage  in  any  adventure  without  receiving  the  order 
of  knighthood. 


CHAPTER  III. 


l6l 


CHAFFER  III. 

WHEREIN  IS  RELATED  THE  DROLL  WAY  IN  WHICH  DON 
QUIXOTE  HAD  HIMSELF  DUBBED  A KNIGHT. 

Harassed  by  this  reflection,  he  made  haste  with 
his  scanty  pothouse  supper,*  and  having  finished  it 
called  the  landlord,  and  shutting  himself  into  the 
stable  with  him,  fell  on  his  knees  before  him,  saying, 
“ From  this  spot  I rise  not,  valiant  knight,  until  your 
courtesy  grants  me  the  boon  I seek,  one  that  will 
redound  to  your  praise  and  the  benefit  of  the  human 
race.”  The  landlord,  seeing  his  guest  at  his  feet  and 
hearing  a speech  of  this  kind,  stood  staring  at  him  in 
bewilderment,  not  knowing  what  to  do  or  say,  and 
entreating  him  to  rise,  but  all  to  no  purpose  until  he 
had  agreed  to  grant  the  boon  demanded  of  him.  “ I 
looked  for  no  less,  my  lord,  from  your  High  Magnifi- 
cence,” replied  Don  Quixote,  “ and  I have  to  tell  you 
that  the  boon  I have  asked  and  your  liberality  has 
granted  is  that  you  shall  dub  me  knight  to-morrow 
morning,  and  that  to-night  I shall  watch  my  arms  in 
the  chapel  of  this  your  castle ; thus  to-morrow,  as  I 
have  said,  will  be  accomplished  what  I so  much  de- 
sire, enabling  me  lawfully  to  roam  through  all  the  four 


* “ Pothouse  ” — venteril,  i.e.  such  as  only  a venta  could  produce. 


i62 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


quarters  of  the  world  seeking  adventures  on  behalf 
of  those  in  distress,  as  is  the  duty  of  chivalry  and  of 
knights-errant  like  myself,  whose  ambition  is  directed 
to  such  deeds.” 

The  landlord,  who,  as  has  been  mentioned,  was 
something  of  a wag,  and  had  already  some  suspicion 
of  his  guest’s  want  of  wits,  was  quite  convinced  of  it 
on  hearing  talk  of  this  kind  from  him,  and  to  make 
sport  for  the  night  he  determined  to  fall  in  with  his' 
humor.  So  he  told  him  he  was  quite  right  in  pursu- 
ing the  object  he  had  in  view,  and  that  such  a motive 
was  natural  and  becoming  in  cavaliers  as  distinguished 
as  he  seemed  and  his  gallant  bearing  showed  him 
to  be ; and  that  he  himself  in  his  younger  days  had 
followed  the  same  honorable  calling,  roaming  in  quest 
of  adventures  in  various  parts  of  the  world,  among 
others  the  Curing-grounds  of  Malaga,  the  Isles  of 
Riaran,  the  Precinct  of  Seville,  the  Little  Market 
of  Segovia,  the  Olivera  of  Valencia,  the  Rondilla  of 
Granada,  the  Strand  of  San  Lucar,  the  Colt  of  Cor- 
dova, the  Taverns  of  Toledo,^  and  divers  other  quar- 


* The  localities  here  mentioned  were,  and  some  of  them  still  are,  haunts  of 
the  rogue  and  vagabond,  or,  what  would  be  called  in  Spain,  the  picaro  class. 
The  Curing-grounds  of  Malaga  was  a place  outside  the  town  where  fish  was 
dried  ; “the  Isles  of  Riaran”  was  the  slang  name  of  a low  suburb  of  the 
same  city;  the  Precinct  {^compas)  of  Seville  was  a district  on  the  river  side, 
not  far  from  the  plaza  de  loros;  the  Little  Market  of  Segovia  was  in  the 
hollow  spanned  by  the  great  aqueduct  on  the  south  side  of  the  town;  the 
Olivera  of  Valencia  was  a small  plaza  in  the  middle  of  the  town;  the  “ Ron- 
dilla of  Granada”  was  probably  in  the  Albaycin  quarter;  the  “Strand  of 
San  Lucar”  and  the  “Taverns  of  Toledo”  explain  themselves  sufficiently; 
and  the  “ Colt  of  Cordova”  was  a district  on  the  south  side  of  the  city,  which 
took  its  name  from  a horse  in  stone  standing  over  a fountain  in  its  centre. 


CHAPTER  III. 


163 

ters,  where  he  had  proved  the  nimbleness  of  his  feet 
and  the  lightness  of  his  lingers,  doing  many  wrongs, 
cheating  many  widows,  ruining  maids  and  swindling 
minors,  and,  in  short,  bringing  himself  under  the 
notice  of  almost  every  tribunal  and  court  of  justice  in 
Spain ; until  at  last  he  had  retired  to  this  castle  of  his, 
where  he  was  living  upon  his  property  and  upon  that 
of  others  ; and  where  he  received  all  knights-errant,  of 
whatever  rank  or  condition  they  might  be,  all  for  the 
great  love  he  bore  them  and  that  they  might  share 
their  substance  with  him  in  return  for  his  benevolence. 
He  told  him,  moreover,  that  in  this  castle  of  his  there 
was  no  chapel  in  which  he  could  watch  his  armor,  as 
it  had  been  pulled  down  in  order  to  be  rebuilt,  but 
that  in  a case  of  necessity  it  might,  he  knew,  be 
watched  anywhere,  and  he  might  watch  it  that  night 
in  a courtyard  of  the  castle,  and  in  the  morning,  God 
willing,  the  requisite  ceremonies  might  be  performed 
so  as  to  have  him  dubbed  a knight,  and  so  thoroughly 
dubbed  that  nobody  could  be  more  so.  He  asked  if 
he  had  any  money  with  him,  to  which  Don  Quixote 
replied  that  he  had  not  a farthing,*  as  in  the  histories 
of  knights-errant  he  had  never  read  of  any  of  them 
carrying  any.  On  this  point  the  landlord  told  him  he 
was  mistaken ; for,  though  not  recorded  in  the  histo- 
ries, because  in  the  author’s  opinion  there  was  no 


As  Fermin  Caballero  says  in  a queer  little  book  called  the  Geographical 
Knowledge  of  Cervatites,  it  is  clear  that  Cervantes  knew  by  heart  the 
“ Mapa  picaresco  de  Espana.” 

I In  the  original,  blanca,  a coin  worth  about  one-seventh  of  a farthing. 


164 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


need  to  mention  any  thing  so  obvious  and  necessary 
as  money  and  clean  shirts,  it  was  not  to  be  supposed 
therefore  that  they  did  not  carry  them,  and  he  might 
regard  it  as  certain  and  established  that  all  knights- 
errant  (about  whom  there  were  so  many  full  and  un- 
impeachable books)  carried  well-furnished  purses  in 
case  of  emergency,  and  likewise  carried  shirts  and  a 
little  box  of  ointment  to  cure  the  wounds  they  re- 
ceived. For  in  those  plains  and  deserts  where  they 
engaged  in  combat  and  came  out  wounded,  it  was  not 
always  that  there  was  some  one  to  cure  them,  unless 
indeed  they  had  for  a friend  some  sage  magician  to 
succor  them  at  once  by  fetching  through  the  air  upon 
a cloud  some  damsel  or  dwarf  with  a vial  of  water  of 
such  virtue  that  by  tasting  one  drop  of  it  they  were 
cured  of  their  hurts  and  wounds  in  an  instant  and 
left  as  sound  as  if  they  had  not  received  any  damage 
whatever.  But  in  case  this  should  not  occur,  the 
knights  of  old  took  care  to  see  that  their  squires  were 
provided  with  money  and  other  requisites,  such  as 
lint  and  ointments  for  healing  purposes ; and  when  it 
happened  that  knights  had  no  squires  (which  was 
rarely  and  seldom  the  case)  they  themselves  carried 
every  thing  in  cunning  saddle-bags  that  were  hardly 
seen  on  the  horse’s  croup,  as  if  it  were  something  else 
of  more  importance, ‘ because,  unless  for  some  such 

* The  passage  as  it  stands  is  sheer  nonsense.  Clemencin  tries  to  make 
sense  of  it  by  substituting  “ less  ” for  “ more;  ” but  even  with  that  emenda- 
tion it  remains  incoheient.  Probably  what  Cervantes  meant  to  write  and 
possibly  did  write  was — “ for  that  was  another  still  more  important  matter, 
because,”  etc. 


CHAPTER  III. 


165 


reason,  carrying  saddle-bags  was  not  very  favorably 
regarded  among  knights-errant.  He  therefore  ad- 
vised him  (and,  as  his  godson  so  soon  to  be,  he  might 
even  command  him)  never  from  that  time  forth  to 
travel  without  money  and  the  usual  requirements,  and 
he  would  find  the  advantage  of  them  when  he  least 
expected  it. 

Don  Quixote  promised  to  follow  his  advice  scrupu- 
lously, and  it  was  arranged  forthwith  that  he  should 
watch  his  armor  in  a large  yard  at  one  side  of  the 
inn ; so,  collecting  it  all  together,  Don  Quixote  placed 
it  on  a trough  that  stood  by  the  side  of  a well,  and 
bracing  his  buckler  on  his  arm  he  grasped  his  lance 
and  began  with  a stately  air  to  march  up  and  down 
in  front  of  the  trough,  and  as  he  began  his  march 
night  began  to  fall. 

The  landlord  told  all  the  people  who  were  in  the 
inn  about  the  craze  of  his  guest,  the  watching  of  the 
armor,  and  the  dubbing  ceremony  he  contemplated. 
Full  of  wonder  at  so  strange  a form  of  madness,  they 
flocked  to  see  it  from  a distance,  and  observed  with 
what  composure  he  sometimes  paced  up  and  down, 
or  sometimes,  leaning  on  his  lance,  gazed  on  his 
armor  without  taking  his  eyes  off  it  for  ever  so  long ; 
and  as  the  night  closed  in  with  a light  from  the  moon 
so  brilliant  that  it  might  vie  with  his  that  lent  it, 
every  thing  the  novice  knight  did  was  plainly  seen  by 
all. 

Meanwhile  one  of  the  carriers  who  were  in  the  inn 
thought  fit  to  water  his  team,  and  it  was  necessary  to 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


1 66 

remove  Don  Quixote’s  armor  as  it  lay  on  the  trough ; 
but  he  seeing  the  other  approach  hailed  him  in  a loud 
voice,  O thou,  whoever  thou  art,  rash  knight  that 
comest  to  lay  hands  on  the  armor  of  the  most  valor- 
ous errant  that  ever  girt  on  sword,  have  a care  what 
thou  dost ; touch  it  not  unless  thou  wouldst  lay  down 
thy  life  as  the  penalty  of  thy  rashness.”  The  carrier 
gave  no  heed  to  these  words  (and  he  would  have 
done  better  to  heed  them  if  he  had  been  heedful  of 
his  health),  but  seizing  it  by  the  straps  flung  the  armor 
some  distance  from  him.  Seeing  this,  Don  Quixote 
raised  his  eyes  to  heaven,  and  fixing  his  thoughts, 
apparently,  upon  his  lady  Dulcinea,  exclaimed,  “Aid 
me,  lady  mine,  in  this  the  first  encounter  that  pre- 
sents itself  to  this  breast  which  thou  boldest  in  sub- 
jection ; let  not  thy  favor  and  protection  fail  me  in 
this  first  jeopardy  ; ” and,  with  these  words  and  others 
to  the  same  purpose,  dropping  his  buckler  he  lifted 
his  lance  with  both  hands  and  with  it  smote  such 
a blow  on  the  carrier’s  head  that  he  stretched  him 
on  the  ground  so  stunned  that  had  he  followed  it  up 
with  a second  there  would  have  been  no  need  of  a 
surgeon  to  cure  him.  This  done,  he  picked  up  his 
armor  and  returned  to  his  beat  with  the  same  serenity 
as  before. 

Shortly  after  this,  another,  not  knowing  what  had 
happened  (for  the  carrier  still  lay  senseless),  came 
with  the  same  object  of  giving  water  to  his  mules,  and 
was  proceeding  to  remove  the  armor  in  order  to  clear 
the  trough,  when  Don  Quixote,  without  uttering  a 


CHAPTER  III. 


167 

word  or  imploring  aid  from  any  one,  once  more 
dropped  his  buckler  and  once  more  lifted  his  lance, 
and  without  actually  breaking  the  second  carrier’s 
head  into  pieces,  made  more  than  three  of  it,  for  he 
laid  it  open  in  four/  At  the  noise  all  the  people  of 
the  inn  ran  to  the  spot,  and  among  them  the  landlord. 
Seeing  this,  Don  Quixote  braced  his  buckler  on  his 
arm,  and  with  his  hand  on  his  sword  exclaimed,  “ O 
Lady  of  Beauty,  strength  and  support  of  my  faint 
heart,  it  is  time  for  thee  to  turn  the  eyes  of  thy  great- 
ness on  this  thy  captive  knight  on  the  brink  of  so 
mighty  an  adventure.”  By  this  he  felt  himself  so  in- 
spirited that  he  would  not  have  flinched  if  all  the 
carriers  in  the  world  had  assailed  him.  The  com- 
rades of  the  wounded  perceiving  the  plight  they  were 
in  began  from  a distance  to  shower  stones  on  Don 
Quixote,  who  screened  himself  as  best  he  could  with 
his  buckler,  not  daring  to  quit  the  trough  and  leave 
his  armor  unprotected.  The  landlord  shouted  to  them 
to  leave  him  alone,  for  he  had  already  told  them  that 
he  was  mad,  and  as  a madman  he  would  not  be  ac- 
countable even  if  he  killed  them  all.  Still  louder 
shouted  Don  Quixote,  calling  them  knaves  and  trai- 
tors, and  the  lord  of  the  castle,  who  allowed  knights- 
errant  to  be  treated  in  this  fashion,  a villain  and  a 
low-born  knight  whom,  had  he  received  the  order  of 
knighthood,  he  would  call  to  account  for  his  treach- 
ery. But  of  you,”  he  cried,  “ base  and  vile  rabble. 


^ That  is,  inflicting  two  cuts  that  formed  a cross. 


i68 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


1 make  no  account ; fling,  strike,  come  on,  do  all  ye 
can  against  me,  ye  shall  see  what  the  reward  of  your 
folly  and  insolence  will  be.”  This  he  uttered  with  so 
much  spirit  and  boldness  that  he  filled  his  assailants 
with  a terrible  fear,  and  as  much  for  this  reason  as  at 
the  persuasion  of  the  landlord  they  left  off  stoning 
him,  and  he  allowed  them  to  carry  off  the  wounded, 
and  with  the  same  calmness  and  composure  as  before 
resumed  the  watch  over  his  armor. 

But  these  freaks  of  his  guest  were  not  much  to  the 
liking  of  the  landlord,  so  he  determined  to  cut  mat- 
ters short  and  confer  upon  him  at  once  the  unlucky 
order  of  knighthood  before  any  further  misadventure 
could  occur ; so,  going  up  to  him,  he  apologized  for 
the  rudeness  which,  without  his  knowledge,  had  been 
offered  to  him  by  these  low  people,  who,  however, 
had  been  well  punished  for  their  audacity.  As  he  had 
already  told  him,  he  said,  there  was  no  chapel  in  the 
castle,  nor  was  it  needed  for  what  remained  to  be 
done,  for,  as  he  underwood  the  ceremonial  of  the 
order,  the  whole  point  of  being  dubbed  a knight  lay 
in  the  accolade  and  in  the  slap  on  the  shoulder,  and 
that  could  be  administered  in  the  middle  of  a field ; 
and  that  he  had  now  done  all  that  was  needful  as  to 
watching  the  armor,  for  all  requirements  were  satisfied 
by  a watch  of  two  hours  only,  while  he  had  been 
more  than  four  about  it.  Don  Quixote  believed  it 
all,  and  told  him  he  stood  there  ready  to  obey  him, 
and  to  make  an  end  of  it  with  as  much  despatch  as 
possible ; for,  if  he  were  again  attacked,  and  felt  him- 


IIB«ARY 
OF  THE 

UNIVEKSITY  OP  ILLINOIS 


CHAPTER  III. 


169 


self  to  be  a dubbed  knight,  he  would  not,  he  thought, 
leave  a soul  alive  in  the  castle,  except  such  as  out  of 
respect  he  might  spare  at  his  bidding. 

Thus  warned  and  menaced,  the  castellan  forthwith 
brought  out  a book  in  which  he  used  to  enter  the 
straw  and  barley  he  served  out  to  the  carriers,  and, 
with  a lad  carrying  a candle-end,  and  the  two  damsels 
already  mentioned,  he  returned  to  where  Don  Quixote 
stood,  and  bade  him  kneel  down.  Then,  reading  from 
his  account-book  as  if  he  were  repeating  some  devout 
prayer,  in  the  middle  of  his  delivery  he  raised  his 
hand  and  gave  him  a sturdy  blow  on  the  neck,  and 
then,  with  his  own  sword,  a smart  slap  on  the  shoulder, 
all  the  while  muttering  between  his  teeth  as  if  he  was 
saying  his  prayers.  Having  done  this,  he  directed 
one  of  the  ladies  to  gird  on  his  sword,  which  she  did 
with  great  self-possession  and  gravity,  and  not  a little 
was  required  to  prevent  a burst  of  laughter  at  each 
stage  of  the  ceremony ; but  what  they  had  already 
seen  of  the  novice  knight’s  prowess  kept  their  laughter 
within  bounds.  On  girding  him  with  the  sword  the 
worthy  lady  said  to  him,  “ May  God  make  your  wor- 
ship a very  fortunate  knight,  and  grant  you  success  in 
battle.”  Don  Quixote  asked  her  name  in  order  that 
he  might  from  that  time  forward  know  to  whom  he 
was  beholden  for  the  favor  he  had  received,  as  he 
meant  to  confer  upon  her  some  portion  of  the  honor 
he  acquired  by  the  might  of  his  arm.  She  answered 
with  great  humility  that  she  was  called  La  Tolosa,  and 
that  she  was  the  daughter  of  a cobbler  of  Toledo  who 


170 


DON  QUIXOTE, 


lived  in  the  stalls  of  Sanchobienaya/  and  that  wherever 
she  might  be  she  would  serve  and  esteem  him  as  her 
lord.  Don  Quixote  said  in  reply  that  she  would  do 
him  a favor  if  thenceforward  she  assumed  the  “ Don  ” 
and  called  herself  Doha  Tolosa.  She  promised  she 
would,  and  then  the  other  buckled  on  his  spur^  and 
with  her  followed  almost  the  ^ame  conversation  as 
with  the  lady  of  the  sword.  He  asked  her  name,  and 
she  said  it  was  La  Molinera,^  and  that  she  was  the 
daughter  of  a respectable  miller  of  Antequera;  and 
"of  her  likewise  Don  Quixote  requested  that  she  would 
adopt  the  “ Don  ” and  call  herself  Doha  Molinera, 
making  offers  to  her  of  further  services  and  favors. 

Having  thus,  with  hot  haste  and  speed,  brought 
to  a conclusion  these  never-till-now-seen  ceremonies, 
Don  Quixote  was  on  thorns  until  he  saw  himself  on 
horseback  sallying  forth  in  quest  of  adventures ; and 
saddling  Rocinante  at  once  he  mounted,  and  embra- 
cing his  host,  as  he  returned  thanks  for  his  kindness 
in  knighting  him,  he  addressed  him  in  language  so 
extraordinary  that  it  is  impossible  to  convey  an  idea 
of  it  or  report  it.  The  landlord,  to  get  him  out  of 
the  inn,  replied  with  no  less  rhetoric  though  with 
shorter  words,  and  without  calling  upon  him  to  pay 
the  reckoning  let  him  go  with  a Godspeed. 

J An  old  plaza  in  Toledo,  so  called  probably  from  a family  of  the  name 
of  Ben  Haya;  or,  as  Pellicer  suggests,  from  a corruption  of  Minaya. 

2 i.e.  “ the  Milleress.” 


CHAPTER  IV. 


71 


CHAPTER  IV. 

OF  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  OUR  KNIGHT  WHEN  HE  LEFT 
THE  INN. 

Day  was  dawning  when  Don  Quixote  quitted  the 
inn,  so  happy,  so  gay,  so  exhilarated  at  finding  him- 
self dubbed  a knight,  that  his  joy  was  like  to  burst  his 
horse-girths.  However,  recalling  the  advice  of  his 
host  as  to  the  requisites  he  ought  to  carry  with  him, 
especially  that  referring  to  money  and  shirts,  he  de- 
termined to  go  home  and  provide  himself  with  all, 
and  also  with  a squire,  for  he  reckoned  upon  securing 
a farm-laborer, I a neighbor  of  his,  a poor  man  with  a 
family,  but  very  well  qualified  for  the  office  of  squire 
to  a knight.  With  this  object  he  turned  his  horse’s 
head  towards  his  village,  and  Rocinante,  thus  re- 
minded of  his  old  quarters,  stepped  out  so  briskly 
that  he  hardly  seemed  to  tread  the  earth. 

He  had  not  gone  far,  when  out  of  a thicket  on  his 
right  there  seemed  to  come  feeble  cries  as  of  some 
one  in  distress,  and  the  instant  he  heard  them  he 


^ Labrador,  the  word  used  here  to  describe  the  status  of  Sancho,  means, 
generally,  a tiller  of  the  soil,  and  includes  farmers  employing  laborers,  like 
Juan  Haldudo  the  Rich,  who  is  so  described  lower  down,  as  well  as  those 
who  tilled  their  land  themselves  or  worked  for  others.  Sancho  was  one  of 
the  latter  class,  as  appears  from  a remark  of  his  own  in  the  Second  Part. 


1/2 


DON-  QUIXOTE, 


exclaimed,  ^‘Thanks  be  to  heaven  for  the  favor  it 
accords  me,  that  it  so  soon  offers  me  an  opportunity 
of  fulfilling  the  obligation  I have  undertaken,  and 
gathering  the  fruit  of  my  ambition.  These  cries,  no 
doubt,  come  from  some  man  or  woman  in  want  of 
help,  and  needing  my  aid  and  protection ; ” and 
wheeling,  he  turned  Rocinante  in  the  direction 
whence  the  cries  seemed  to  proceed.  He  had  gone 
but  a few  paces  into  the  wood,  when  he  saw  a mare 
tied  to  an  oak,  and  tied  to  another,  and  stripped 
from  the  waist  upwards,  a youth  of  about  fifteen 
years  of  age,  from  whom  the  cries  came.  Nor  were 
they  without  cause,  for  a lusty  farmer  was  flogging 
him  with  a belt  and  following  up  every  blow  with 
scoldings  and  commands,  repeating,  “ Your  mouth 
shut  and  your  eyes  open  ! ” while  the  youth  made 
answer,  ‘‘  I won’t  do  it  again,  master  mine  ; by  God’s 
passion  I won’t  do  it  again,  and  I’ll  take  more  care 
of  the  flock  another  time.” 

Seeing  what  was  going  on,  Don  Quixote  said  in  an 
angry  voice,  “ Discourteous  knight,  it  ill  becomes  you 
to  assail  one  who  cannot  defend  himself ; mount  your 
steed  and  take  your  lance  ” (for  there  was  a lance 
leaning  against  the  oak  to  which  the  mare  was  tied), 
and  I will  make  you  know  that  you  are  behaving  as 
a coward.”  The  farmer,  seeing  before  him  this  figure 
in  full  armor  brandishing  a lance  over  his  head,  gave 
himself  up  for  dead,  and  made  answer  meekly,  “ Sir 
Knight,  this  youth  that  I am  chastising  is  my  servant, 
employed  by  me  to  watch  a flock  of  sheep  that  I 


CHAPTER  IV. 


173 


have  hard  by,  and  he  is  so  careless  that  I lose  one 
every  day,  and  when  I punish  him  for  his  carelessness 
and  knavery  he  says  I do  it  out  of  niggardliness,  to 
escape  paying  him  the  wages  I owe  him,  and  before 
God,  and  on  my  soul,  he  lies.” 

“ Lies  before  me,  base  clown  ! ” said  Don  Quixote. 
“ By  the  sun  that  shines  on  us  I have  a mind  to  run 
you  through  with  this  lance.  Pay  him  at  once  with- 
out another  word ; if  not,  by  the  God  that  rules  us  I 
will  make  an  end  of  you,  and  annihilate  you  on  the 
spot ; release  him  instantly.” 

The  farmer  hung  his  head,  and  without  a word 
untied  his  servant,  of  whom  Don  Quixote  asked  how 
much  his  master  owed  him. 

He  replied,  nine  months  at  seven  reals  a month. 
Don  Quixote  added  it  up,  found  that  it  came  to  sixty- 
three  reals,  and  told  the  farmer  to  pay  it  down  imme- 
diately, if  he  did  not  want  to  die  for  it. 

The  trembling  clown  replied  that  as  he  lived  and 
by  the  oath  he  had  sworn  (though  he  had  not  sworn 
any)  it  was  not  so  much ; for  there  were  to  be  taken 
into  account  and  deducted  three  pairs  of  shoes  he 
had  given  him,  and  a real  for  two  blood-lettings  when 
he  was  sick. 

“ All  that  is  very  well,”  said  Don  Quixote ; “ but 
let  the  shoes  and  the  blood-lettings  stand  as  a set-off 
against  the  blows  you  have  given  him  without  any 
cause ; for  if  he  spoiled  the  leather  of  the  shoes  you 
paid  for,  you  have  damaged  that  of  his  body,  and  if 
the  barber  took  blood  from  him  when  he  was  sick. 


74 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


you  have  drawn  it  when  he  was  sound ; so  on  that 
score  he  owes  you  nothing.” 

‘‘The  difficulty  is,  Sir  Knight, ‘ that  I have  no 
money  here ; let  Andres  come  home  with  me,  and  I 
will  pay  him  all,  real  by  real.” 

“ I go  with  him  ! ” said  the  youth.  “ Nay,  God 
forbid  ! no,  sehor,  not  for  the  world ; for  once  alone 
with  me,  he  would  flay  me  like  a Saint  Bartholomew.” 

“ He  will  do  nothing  of  the  kind,”  said  Don  Qui- 
xote ; “ I have  only  to  command,  and  he  will  obey 
me ; and  as  he  has  sworn  to  me  by  the  order  of 
knighthood  which  he  has  received,  I leave  him  free, 
and  I guarantee  the  payment.” 

“ Consider  what  you  are  saying,  sehor,”  said  the 
youth  ; “ this  master  of  mine  is  not  a knight,  nor  has 
he  received  any  order  of  knighthood;  for  he  is  Juan 
Haldudo  the  Rich,  of  Quintanar.” 

“That  matters  little,”  replied  Don  Quixote  ; “there 
may  be  Haldudos  knights ; ^ moreover,  every  one  is 
the  son  of  his  works.”  ^ 

“ That  is  true,”  said  Andres ; “ but  this  master  of 
mine  — of  what  works  is  he  the  son,  when  he  refuses 
me  the  wages  of  my  sweat  and  labor?  ” 

“I  do  not  refuse,  brother  Andres,”  said  the  farmer ; 
“ be  good  enough  to  come  along  with  me,  and  I swear 
by  all  the  orders  of  knighthood  there  are  in  the  world 


^ Cervantes  now  and  then  in  dialogue  does  not  specify  the  speaker,  but 
the  omissions  are  so  rare  that  they  are  probably  oversights,  and  I have 
generally  supplied  them. 

2 Haldudos  — wearers  of  long  skirts. 

3 PrOV. II2. 


CHAPTER  IV. 


175 


to  pay  you  as  I have  agreed,  real  by  real,  and  per- 
fumed.” ‘ 

“For  the  perfumery  I excuse  you,”  said  Don  Qui- 
xote ; “ give  it  to  him  in  reals,  and  I shall  be  satisfied  ; 
and  see  that  you  do  as  you  have  sworn ; if  not,  by  the 
same  oath  I swear  to  come  back  and  hunt  you  out  and 
punish  you  ; and  I shall  find  you  though  you  should  lie 
closer  than  a lizard.  And  if  you  desire  to  know  who  it 
is  lays  this  command  upon  you,  that  you  may  be  more 
firmly  bound  to  obey  it,  know  that  I am  the  valorous 
Don  Quixote  of  La  Mancha,  the  undoer  of  wrongs 
and  injustices ; and  so,  God  be  with  you,  and  keep  in 
mind  what  you  have  promised  and  sworn  under  those 
penalties  that  have  been  already  declared  to  you.” 

So  saying,  he  gave  Rocinante  the  spur  and  was  soon 
out  of  reach.  The  farmer  followed  him  with  his  eyes, 
and  when  he  saw  that  he  had  cleared  the  wood  and 
was  no  longer  in  sight,  he  turned  to  his  boy  Andres, 
and  said,  “ Come  here,  my  son,  I want  to  pay  you 
what  I owe  you,  as  that  undoer  of  wrongs  has  com- 
manded me.” 

“ My  oath  on  it,”  said  Andres,  “ your  worship  will 
be  well  advised  to  obey  the  command  of  that  good 
knight  — may  he  live  a thousand  years  — for,  as  he  is 
a valiant  and  just  judge,  by  Roque,^  if  you  do  not  pay 
me,  he  will  come  back  and  do  as  he  said.” 


1 “Perfumed”  — a way  of  expressing  completeness  or  perfection  of 
condition. 

2 An  obscure  oath,  of  which  there  is  no  satisfactory  explanation  as  to 
who  or  what  Roque  was,  whether  the  San  Roque  who  gave  the  name  to  the 
town  near  Gibraltar,  or  some  Manchegan  celebrity. 


176 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


“My  oath  on  it,  too,”  said  the  farmer;  “but  as  I 
have  a strong  affection  for  you,  I want  to  add  to  the 
debt  in  order  to  add  to  the  payment ; ” and  seizing 
him  by  the  arm,  he  tied  him  up  to  the  oak  again, 
where  he  gave  him  such  a flogging  that  he  left  him 
for  dead. 

“ Now,  Master  Andres,”  said  the  farmer,  “ call  on 
the  undoer  of  wrongs ; you  will  find  he  won’t  undo 
that,  though  I am  not  sure  that  I have  quite  done 
with  you,  for  I have  a good  mind  to  flay  you  alive  as 
you  feared.”  But  at  last  he  untied  him,  and  gave 
him  leave  to  go  look  for  his  judge  in  order  to  put  the 
sentence  pronounced  into  execution. 

Andres  went  off  rather  down  in  the  mouth,  swear- 
ing he  would  go  to  look  for  the  valiant  Don  Quixote 
of  La  Mancha  and  tell  him  exactly  what  had  hap- 
pened, and  that  all  would  have  to  be  repaid  him 
sevenfold ; but  for  all  that,  he  went  off  weeping, 
while  his  master  stood  laughing. 

Thus  did  the  valiant  Don  Quixote  right  that  wrong, 
and,  thoroughly  satisfied  with  what  had  taken  place, 
as  he  considered  he  had  made  a very  happy  and 
noble  beginning  with  his  knighthood,  he  took  the 
road  towards  his  village  in  perfect  self-content,  saying 
in  a low  voice,  “ Well  mayest  thou  this  day  call  thy- 
self fortunate  above  all  on  earth,  O Dulcinea  del 
Toboso,  fairest  of  the  fair  ! since  it  has  fallen  to  thy 
lot  to  hold  subject  and  submissive  to  thy  full  will  and 
pleasure  a knight  so  renowned  as  is  and  will  be  Don 
Quixote  of  La  Mancha,  who,  as  all  the  world  knows, 


CHAPTER  IV. 


>?7 


yesterday  received  the  order  of  knighthood,  and  hath 
to-day  righted  the  greatest  wrong  and  grievance  that 
ever  injustice  conceived  and  cruelty  perpetrated  : who 
hath  to-day  plucked  the  rod  from  the  hand  of  yonder 
ruthless  oppressor  so  wantonly  lashing  that  tender 
child.” 

He  now  came  to  a road  branching  in  four  direc- 
tions, and  immediately  he  was  reminded  of  those 
cross-roads  where  knights-errant  used  to  stop  to  con- 
sider which  road  they  should  take.  In  imitation  of 
them  he  halted  for  a while,  and  after  having  deeply 
considered  it,  he  gave  Rocinante  his  head,  submitting 
his  own  will  to  that  of  his  hack,  who  followed  out  his 
first  intention,  which  was  to  make  straight  for  his  own 
stable.  After  he  had  gone  about  two  miles  Don 
Quixote  perceived  a large  party  of  people,  who,  as 
afterwards  appeared,  were  some  Toledo  traders,  on 
their  way  to  buy  silk  at  Murcia.  There  were  six 
of  them  coming  along  under  their  sunshades,  with 
four  servants  mounted,  and  three  muleteers  on  foot. 
Scarcely  had  Don  Quixote  descried  them  when  the 
fancy  possessed  him  that  this  must  be  some  new 
adventure ; and  to  help  him  to  imitate  as  far  as  he 
could  those  passages  ' he  had  read  of  in  his  books, 
here  seemed  to  come  one  made  on  purpose,  which 
he  resolved  to  attempt.  So  with  a lofty  bearing  and 
determination  he  fixed  himself  firmly  in  his  stirrups, 
got  his  lance  ready,  brought  his  buckler  before  his 


* Not  passages  of  the  book,  but  passages  of  arms  like  that  of  Suero  de 
Quinones  on  the  bridge  of  Orbigo  in  the  reign  of  John  II. 


178 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


breast,  and  planting  himself  in  the  middle  of  the  road, 
stood  waiting  the  approach  of  these  knights-errant, 
for  such  he  now  considered  and  held  them  to  be ; and 
when  they  had  come  near  enough  to  see  and  hear, 
he  exclaimed  with  a haughty  gesture,  All  the  world 
stand,  unless  all  the  world  confess  that  in  all  the 
world  there  is  no  maiden  fairer  than  the  Empress 
of  La  Mancha,  the  peerless  Dulcinea  del  Toboso.” 

The  traders  halted  at  the  sound  of  this  language 
and  the  sight  of  the  strange  figure  that  uttered  it,  and 
from  both  figure  and  language  at  once  guessed  the 
craze  of  their  owner ; they  wished,  however,  to  learn 
quietly  what  was  the  object  of  this  confession  that 
was  demanded  of  them,  and  one  of  them,  who  was 
rather  fond  of  a joke  and  was  very  sharp-witted,  said 
to  him,  Sir  Knight,  we  do  not  know  who  this  good 
lady  is  that  you  speak  of;  show  her  to  us,  for,  if  she 
be  of  such  beauty  as  you  suggest,  with  all  our  hearts 
and  without  any  pressure  we  will  confess  the  truth 
that  is  on  your  part  required  of  us.” 

If  I were  to  show  her  to  you,”  replied  Don  Qui- 
xote, what  merit  would  you  have  in  confessing  a 
truth  so  manifest?  The  essential  point  is  that  with- 
out seeing  her  you  must  believe,  confess,  affirm,  swear, 
and  defend  it ; * else  ye  have  to  do  with  me  in  battle, 
ill-conditioned,  arrogant  rabble  that  ye  are  ; and  come 

* It  is  strange  that  this  passage  should  have  escaped  the  notice  of  those 
ingenious  critics  whose  mania  it  is  to  hunt  for  hidden  meanings  in  Don 
Quixote.  With  a moderate  amount  of  acumen  it  ought  to  be  easy  to 
extract  from  these  words  a manifest  “covert  attack”  on  Church,  Faith,  and 
Dogma. 


CHAPTER  IV. 


179 


yc  on,  one  by  one  as  the  order  of  knighthood  requires, 
or  all  together  as  is  the  custom  and  vile  usage  of 
your  breed,  here  do  I bide  and  await  you,  relying  on 
the  justice  of  the  cause  I maintain.” 

“ Sir  Knight,”  replied  the  trader,  “ I entreat  your 
worship  in  the  name  of  this  present  company  of 
princes,  that,  to  save  us  from  charging  our  consciences 
with  the  confession  of  a thing  we  have  never  seen  or 
heard  of,  and  one  moreover  so  much  to  the  prejudice 
of  the  Empresses  and  Queens  of  the  Alcarria  and 
Estremadura,^  your  worship  will  be  pleased  to  show 
us  some  portrait  of  this  lady,  though  it  be  no  bigger 
than  a grain  of  wheat ; for  by  the  thread  one  gets  at 
the  ball,2  we  shall  be  satisfied  and 

easy,  and  you  will  be  content  and  pleased ; nay,  I 
believe  we  are  already  so  far  agreed  with  you  that 
even  though  her  portrait  should  show  her  blind  of 
one  eye,  and  distilling  vermilion  and  sulphur  from  the 
other,  we  would  nevertheless,  to  gratify  your  worship, 
say  all  in  her  favor  that  you  desire.” 

She  distils  nothing  of  the  kind,  vile  rabble,”  said 
Don  Quixote,  burning  with  rage,  “nothing  of  the 
kind,  I say,  only  ambergris  and  civet  in  cotton ; ^ nor 
is  she  one-eyed  or  humpbacked,  but  straighter  than 

^ The  Alcarria  is  a bare,  thinly  populated  district,  in  the  upper  valley 
of  the  Tagus,  stretching  from  Guadalajara  to  the  confines  of  Aragon.  Estre- 
madura  is  the  most  backward  of  all  the  provinces  of  Spain.  In  elevating 
these  two  regions  into  the  rank  of  empires,  the  waggish  trader  falls  in  with  the 
craze  of  Don  Quixote. 

2 Prov.  114.  The  ball,  i.e.,  that  on  which  it  is  wound. 

3 Civet  was  the  perfume  most  in  request  at  the  time,  and  was  imported 
packed  in  cotton. 


i8o 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


a Guadarrama  spindle  : * but  ye  must  pay  for  the  blas- 
phemy ye  have  uttered  against  beauty  like  that  of  my 
lady.” 

And  so  saying,  he  charged  with  levelled  lance 
against  the  one  who  had  spoken,  with  such  fury  and 
fierceness  that,  if  luck  had  not  contrived  that  Roci- 
nante  should  stumble  midway  and  come  down,  it 
would  have  gone  hard  with  the  rash  trader.  Down 
went  Rocinante,  and  over  went  his  master,  rolling 
along  the  ground  for  some  distance ; and  when  he 
tried  to  rise  he  was  unable,  so  encumbered  was  he 
with  lance,  buckler,  spurs,  helmet,  and  the  weight 
of  his  old  armor ; and  all  the  wliile  he  was  struggling 
to  get  up,  he  kept  saying,  “ Fly  not,  cowards  and 
caitiffs  ! stay,  for  not  by  my  fault,  but  my  horse’s,  am 
I stretched  here.” 

One  of  the  muleteers  in  attendance,  who  could  not 
have  had  much  good  nature  in  him,  hearing  the  poor 
prostrate  man  blustering  in  this  style,  was  unable  to 
refrain  from  giving  him  an  answer  on  his  ribs ; and 
coming  up  to  him  he  seized  his  lance,  and  having 
broken  it  in  pieces,  with  one  of  them  he  began  so  to 
belabor  our  Don  Quixote  that,  notwithstanding  and 
in  spite  of  his  armor,  he  milled  him  like  a measure  of 
wheat.  His  masters  called  out  not  to  lay  on  so  hard 


* Mas  derecho  qiie  nn  huso — “ straighter  than  a spindle” — is  a popu- 
lar phrase  in  use  to  this  day.  The  addition  of  “ Guadarrama  ” Clemencin 
explains  by  saying  that  spindles  were  made  in  great  quantities  of  the  beech 
wood  that  grew  on  the  Guadarrama  Sierra.  Fermin  Caballero  {Pcricia 
Geograjica  de  Cerz  antes)  holds  that  the  reference  is  to  the  pine  trees  on  the 
Guadarrama  Pass. 


CHAPTER  IV. 


I8l 

and  to  leave  him  alone,  but  the  muleteer’s  blood  was 
up,  and  he  did  not  care  to  drop  the  game  until  he 
had  vented  the  rest  of  his  wrath,  and  gathering  up  the 
remaining  fragments  of  the  lance  he  finished  with  a 
discharge  upon  the  unhappy  victim,  who  all  through 
the  storm  of  sticks  that  rained  on  him  never  ceased 
threatening  heaven,  and  earth,  and  the  brigands,  for 
such  they  seemed  to  him.  At  last  the  muleteer  was 
tired,  and  the  traders  continued  their  journey,  taking 
with  them  matter  for  talk  about  the  poor  fellow  who 
had  been  cudgelled.  He  when  he  found  himself 
alone  made  another  effort  to  rise ; but  if  he  was 
unable  when  whole  and  sound,  how  was  he  to  rise 
after  having  been  thrashed  and  well-nigh  knocked  to 
pieces?  And  yet  he  esteemed  himself  fortunate,  as 
it  seemed  to  him  that  this  was  a regular  knight- 
errant’s  mishap,  and  entirely,  he  considered,  the  fault 
of  his  horse.  However,  battered  in  body  as  he  was, 
to  rise  was  beyond  his  power. 


i82 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


V'' 


CHAPTER  V. 


IN  WHICH  THE  NARRATIVE  OF  OUR  ' KNIGHT’S  MISHAP  IS 
CONTINUED. 

Finding,  then,  that  in  fact  he  could  not  move,  he 
bethought  himself  of  having  recourse  to  his  usual 
^ remedy,  which  was  to  think  of  some  passage  in  his 
\ ! books,  and  his  craze  brought  to  his  mind  that  about 


Baldwin  and  the  Marquis  of  Mantua,  when  Carloto 


I \\  left  him  wounded  on  the  mountain  side,'  a story  known 
by  heart  by  the  children,  not  forgotten  by  the  young 
men,  and  lauded  and  even  believed  by  the  old  folk ; 
and  for  all  that  not  a whit  truer  than  the  miracles  of 
Mahomet.  This  seemed  to  him  to  fit  exactly  the  case 
in  which  he  found  himself,  so,  making  a show  of  severe 
suffering,  he  began  to  roll  on  the  ground  and  with 
feeble  breath  repeat  the  very  words  which  the  wounded 
knight  of  the  wood  is  said  to  have  uttered  : 


Where  art  thou,  lady  mine,  that  thou 
My  sorrow  dost  not  rue  ? 


Thou  canst  not  know  it,  lady  mine. 
Or  else  thou  art  untrue. 


^ The  subject  of  the  old  ballad  — De  Manttia  salt'd  el  Marques  (Duran’s 
Romancero  Getteral,  No.  355);  a chanson  de  geste,  indeed,  rather  than  a 
ballad,  as  it  runs  to  something  over  800  lines.  Pellicer  wrongly  assigns  it  to 
Geronimo  Trevino,  a sixteenth  century  author.  It  is  in  the  Antwerp  Can- 
cionero  of  1550  and  the  Saragossa  Silva  of  the  same  date. 


CHAPTER  V.  183 

And  so  he  went  on  with  the  ballad  as  far  as  the 
lines  : 

O noble  Marquis  of  Mantua, 

My  Uncle  and  liege  lord  ! 

As  chance  would  have  it,  when  he  had  got  to  this 
line  there  happened  to  come  by  a peasant  from  his 
own  village,  a neighbor  of  his,  who  had  been  with  a 
load  of  wheat  to  the  mill,  and  he,  seeing  the  man 
stretched  there,  came  up  to  him  and  asked  him  who 
he  was  and  what  was  the  matter  with  him  that  he 
complained  so  dolefully. 

Don  Quixote  was  firmly  persuaded  that  this  was  the 
Marquis  of  Mantua,  his  uncle,  so  the  only  answer  he 
made  was  to  go  on  with  his  ballad,  in  which  he  told 
the  tale  of  his  misfortune,  and  of  the  loves  of  the 
Emperor’s  son  and  his  wife,  all  exactly  as  the  ballad 
sings  it. 

The  peasant  stood  amazed  at  hearing  such  non- 
sense, and  relieving  him  of  the  visor,  already  battered 
to  pieces  by  blows,  he  wiped  his  face,  which  was  cov- 
ered with  dust,  and  as  soon  as  he  had  done  so  he 
recognized  him  and  said,  Sehor  Don  Quixada  ” (for 
so  he  appears  to  have  been  called  when  he  was  in  his 
senses  and  had  not  yet  changed  from  a quiet  country 
gentleman  into  a knight-errant),  “who  has  brought 
your  worship  to  this  pass?”  But  to  all  questions  the 
other  only  went  on  with  his  ballad. 

Seeing  this,  the  good  man  removed  as  well  as  he 
could  his  breastplate  and  backpiece  to  see  if  he  had 
any  wound,  but  he  could  perceive  no  blood  nor  any 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


184 

mark  whatever.  He  then  contrived  to  raise  him  from 
the  ground,  and  with  no  little  difficulty  hoisted  him 
upon  his  ass,  which  seemed  to  him  to  be  the  easiest 
mount  for  him ; and  collecting  the  arms,  even  to  the 
splinters  of  the  lance,  he  tied  them  on  Rocinante,  and 
leading  him  by  the  bridle  and  the  ass  by  the  halter  he 
took  the  road  for  the  village,  very  sad  to  hear  what 
absurd  stuff  Don  Quixote  was  talking.  Nor  was  Don 
Quixote  less  so,  for  what  with  blows  and  bruises  he 
could  not  sit  upright  on  the  ass,  and  from  time  to 
time  he  sent  up  sighs  to  heaven,  so  that  once  more 
he  drove  the  peasant  to  ask  what  ailed  him.  And  it 
could  have  been  only  the  devil  himself  that  put  into 
his  head  tales  to  match  his  own  adventures,  for  now, 
forgetting  Baldwin,  he  bethought  himself  of  the  Moor 
Abindarraez,  when  the  Alcaide  of  Antequera,  Rodrigo 
de  Narvaez,  took  him  prisoner  and  carried  him  away 
to  his  castle ; so  that  when  the  peasant  again  asked 
him  how  he  was  and  what  ailed  him,  he  gave  him  for 
reply  the  same  words  and  phrases  that  the  captive 
Abencerrage  gave  to  Rodrigo  de  Narvaez,  just  as  he 
had  read  the  story  in  the  “ Diana  ” of  Jorge  de  Monte- 
mayor  * where  it  is  written,  applying  it  to  his  own  case 
so  aptly  that  the  peasant  went  along  cursing  his  fate 
that  he  had  to  listen  to  such  a lot  of  nonsense ; from 
which,  however,  he  came  to  the  conclusion  that  his 

* From  the  words  used  by  Cervantes  he  seems  to  have  known  or  suspected 
that  Montemayor  was  not  the  author  of  the  romantic  story  of  Abindarraez 
and  Xarifa.  It  was  inserted  in  the  second  edition  of  the  Diana,  the  year  of 
the  author’s  death,  and  it  had  previously  appeared  as  a separate  novel  at 
Toledo. 


CHAPTER  V. 


85 


neighbor  was  mad,  and  so  made  all  haste  to  reach  the 
village  to  escape  the  wearisomeness  of  this  harangue 
of  Don  Quixote’s  ; who,  at  the  end  of  it,  said,  “ Sehor 
Don  Rodrigo  de  Narvaez,  your  worship  must  know 
that  this  fair  Xarifa  I have  mentioned  is  now  the  lovely 
Dulcinea  del  Toboso,  for  whom  I have  done,  am  doing, 
and  will  do  the  most  famous  deeds  of  chivalry  that  in 
this  world  have  been  seen,  are  to  be  seen,  or  ever  shall 
be  seen.” 

To  this  the  peasant  answered,  “Sehor  — sinner  that 
I am  ! — cannot  your  worship  see  that  I am  not  Don 
Rodrigo  de  Narvaez  nor  the  Marquis  of  Mantua,  but 
Pedro  Alonso  your  neighbor,  and  that  your  worship  is 
neither  Baldwin  nor  Abindarraez,  but  the  worthy  gen- 
tleman Sehor  Quixada?” 

“ I know  who  I am,”  replied  Don  Quixote,  “ and  I 
know  that  I may  be  not  only  those  I have  named,  but 
all  the  Twelve  Peers  of  France  and  even  all  the  Nine 
Worthies,  since  my  achievements  surpass  all  that  they 
have  done  all  together  and  each  of  them  on  his  own 
account.” 

With  this  talk  and  more  of  the  same  kind  they 
reached  the  village  just  as  night  was  beginning  to  fall, 
but  the  peasant  waited  until  it  was  a little  later  that  the 
belabored  gentleman  might  not  be  seen  riding  in  such 
a miserable  trim.  When  it  was  what  seemed  to  him 
the  proper  time  he  entered  the  village  and  went  to 
Don  Quixote’s  house,  which  he  found  all  in  confusion, 
and  there  were  the  curate  and  the  village  barber,  who 
were  great  friends  of  Don  Quixote,  and  his  house- 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


1 86 

keeper  was  saying  to  them  in  a loud  voice,  ‘‘What 
does  your  worship  think  can  have  befallen  my  master, 
sehor  licentiate  Pero  Perez?”  for  so  the  curate  was 
called ; “ it  is  six  days  now  since  any  thing  has  been 
seen  of  him,  or  the  hack,  or  the  buckler,  lance,  or 
armor.  Miserable  me  ! I am  certain  of  it,  and  it  is 
as  true  as  that  I was  born  to  die,  that  these  accursed 
books  of  chivalry  he  has,  and  has  got  into  the  way  of 
reading  so  constantly,  have  upset  his  reason ; for  now 
I remember  having  often  heard  him  saying  to  himself 
that  he  would  turn  knight-errant  and  go  all  over  the 
world  in  quest  of  adventures.  To  the  devil  and  Bar- 
abbas  with  such  books,  that  have  brought  to  ruin  in 
this  way  the  finest  understanding  there  was  in  all  La 
Mancha  ! ” 

The  niece  said  the  same,  and,  indeed,  more  ; “ You 
must  know,  Master  Nicholas”  — for  that  was  the  name 
of  the  barber  — “ it  was  often  my  uncle’s  way  to  stay 
two  days  and  nights  together  poring  over  these  unholy 
books  of  misventures,  after  which  he  would  fling  the 
book  away  and  snatch  up  his  sword  and  fall  to  slash- 
ing the  walls ; and  when  he  was  tired  out  he  would 
say  he  had  killed  four  giants  like  four  towers ; and  the 
sweat  that  flowed  from  him  when  he  was  weary  he  said 
was  the  blood  of  the  wounds  he  had  received  in  battle  ; 
and  then  he  would  drink  a great  jug  of  cold  water  and 
become  calm  and  quiet,  saying  that  this  water  was  a 
most  precious  potion  which  the  sage  Esquife,  a great 
magician  and  friend  of  his,  had  brought  him.  But  I 
take  all  the  blame  upon  myself  for  never  having  told 


CHAPTER  V. 


8; 


your  worships  of  my  uncle’s  vagaries,  that  you  might 
put  a stop  to  them  before  things  had  come  to  this 
pass,  and  burn  all  these  accursed  books — for  he  has  a 
great  number  — that  richly  deserve  to  be  burned  like 
heretics.” 

‘‘So  say  I too,”  said  the  curate,  “and  by  my  faith 
to-morrow  shall  not  pass  without  public  judgment 
upon  them,  and  may  they  be  condemned  to  the 
flames  lest  they  lead  those  that  read  them  to  behave 
as  my  good  friend  seems  to  have  behaved.” 

All  this  the  peasant  heard,  and  from  it  he  under- 
stood at  last  what  was  the  matter  with  his  neighbor, 
so  he  began  calling  aloud,  “ Open,  your  worships,  to 
Sehor  Baldwin  and  to  Sefior  the  Marquis  of  Mantua, 
who  comes  badly  wounded,  and  to  Sehor  Abindarraez, 
the  Moor,  whom  the  valiant  Rodrigo  de  Narvaez,  the 
Alcaide  of  Antequera,  brings  captive.” 

At  these  words  they  all  hurried  out,  and  when  they 
recognized  their  friend,  master,  and  uncle,  who  had 
not  yet  dismounted  from  the  ass  because  he  could  not, 
they  ran  to  embrace  him. 

“ Hold ! ” said  he,  “ for  I am  badly  wounded 
through  my  horse’s  fault ; carry  me  to  bed,  and  if 
possible  send  for  the  wise  Urganda  to  cure  and  see  to 
my  wounds.” 

“See  there  ! plague  on  it ! ” cried  the  housekeeper 
at  this  : “ did  not  my  heart  tell  the  truth  as  to  which 
foot  my  master  went  lame  of?  To  bed  with  your 
worship  at  once,  and  we  will  contrive  to  cure  you  here 
without  fetching  that  Hurgada.  A curse  I say  once 


88 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


more,  and  a hundred  times  more,  on  those  books  of 
chivalry  that  have  brought  your  worship  to  such  a 
pass.” 

They  carried  him  to  bed  at  once,  and  after  search- 
ing for  his  wounds  could  find  none,  but  he  said  they 
were  all  bruises  from  having  had  a severe  fall  with  his 
horse  Rocinante  when  in  combat  with  ten  giants,  the 
biggest  and  the  boldest  to  be  found  on  earth. 

“ So,  so  ! ” said  the  curate,  “ are  there  giants  in  the 
dance?  By  the  sign  of  the  Cross  I will  burn  them 
to-morrow  before  the  day  is  over.” 

They  put  a host  of  questions  to  Don  Quixote,  but 
his  only  answer  to  all  was  — give  him  something  to 
eat,  and  leave  him  to  sleep,  for  that  was  what  he 
needed  most.  They  did  so,  and  the  curate  ques- 
tioned the  peasant  at  great  length  as  to  how  he  had 
found  Don  Quixote.  He  told  him  all,  and  the  non- 
sense he  had  talked  when  found  and  on  the  way 
home,  all  which  made  the  licentiate  the  more  eager 
to  do  what  he  did  the  next  day,  which  was  to  summon 
his  friend  the  barber,  Master  Nicholas,  and  go  with 
him  to  Don  Quixote’s  house. 


CHAPTER  VI. 


189 


CHAPTER  VI. 

OF  THE  DIVERTING  AND  IMPORTANT  SCRUTINY  WHICH 
THE  CURATE  AND  THE  BARBER  MADE  IN  THE  LIBRARY 
OF  OUR  INGENIOUS  GENTLEMAN. 

He  was  still  sleeping ; so  the  curate  asked  ‘ the 
niece  for  the  keys  of  the  room  where  the  books,  the 
authors  of  all  the  mischief,  were,  and  right  willingly 
she  gave  them.  They  all  went  in,  the  housekeeper 
with  them,  and  found  more  than  a hundred  volumes 
of  big  books  very  well  bound,  and  some  other  small 
ones.^  The  moment  the  housekeeper  saw  them  she 
turned  about  and  ran  out  of  the  room,  and  came  back 
immediately  with  a saucer  of  holy  water  and  a sprin- 
kler, saying,  “ Here,  your  worship,  sehor  licentiate, 
sprinkle  this  room ; don’t  leave  any  magician  of  the 
many  there  are  in  these  books  to  bewitch  us  in  re- 
venge for  our  design  of  banishing  them  from  the 
world.” 


* In  the  original  the  passage  runs:  “ Who  was  even  still  sleeping.  He 
asked  the  niece  for  the  keys,”  etc.  It  is  a minor  instance  of  Cervantes’  dis- 
regard of  the  ordinary  laws  of  composition,  and  also  a proof  that  at  this  stage 
of  the  work  he  had  not  originally  contemplated  a division  into  chapters. 

2 The  romances  of  chivalry  were,  with  not  more  than  two  or  three  excep- 
tions, produced  in  the  folio  form,  while  the  books  of  poetry,  the  pastorals,  the 
cancioneros,  and  romanceros,  were  either  in  small  quarto  or  much  more 
commonly  in  small  octavo  corresponding  in  size  with  our  duodecimo. 


190 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


The  simplicity  of  the  housekeeper  made  the  licen- 
tiate laugh,  and  he  directed  the  barber  to  give  him 
the  books  one  by  one  to  see  what  they  were  about, 
as  there  might  be  some  to  be  found  among  them  that 
did  not  deserve  the  penalty  of  fire. 

‘‘  No,”  said  the  niece,  “ there  is  no  reason  for  show- 
ing mercy  to  any  of  them ; they  have  every  one  of 
them  done  mischief;  better  fling  them  out  of  the 
window  into  the  court  and  make  a pile  of  them  and 
set  fire  to  them ; or  else  carry  them  into  the  yard,  and 
there  a bonfire  can  be  made  without  the  smoke  giving 
any  annoyance.”  ' The  housekeeper  said  the  same, 
so  eager  were  they  both  for  the  slaughter  of  those 
innocents,  but  the  curate  would  not  agree  to  it  with- 
out first  reading  at  any  rate  the  titles. 

The  first  that  Master  Nicholas  put  into  his  hand 
was  the  four  books  of  “Amadis  of  Gaul.”  ^‘This 
seems  a mysterious  thing,”  said  the  curate,  “for,  as  I 
have  heard  said,  this  was  the  first  book  of  chivalry 
printed  in  Spain,  and  from  this  all  the  others  derive 
their  birth  and  origin ; ^ so  it  seems  to  me  that  we 
ought  inexorably  to  condemn  it  to  the  flames  as  the 
founder  of  so  vile  a sect.” 


The  court  the  niece  speaks  of,  was  the  patio  or  open  space  in  the  middle 
of  the  house:  the  corral  or  yard  was  on  the  outside. 

2 The  curate  was  quite  correct  in  his  idea  that  Aittadis  of  Gaul  was  the 
parent  of  the  chivalry  literature,  but  not  in  his  statement  that  it  was  the  first 
book  of  the  kind  printed  in  Spain,  for  it  is  not  likely  it  was  printed  before 
Tirant  lo  Blanch,  Oliveros  de  Castilla,  or  the  Carcel  de  Amor.  The 
earliest  known  edition  was  printed  in  Rome  in  1519,  but  there  can  be  no 
doubt  that  this  is  a reprint  of  a Spanish  edition,  of  perhaps  even  an  earlier 
date  than  1510,  which  has  been  given  as  that  of  the  first  edition. 


CHAPTER  VI. 


I9I 

Nay,  sir,”  said  the  barber,  I,  too,  have  heard 
say  that  this  is  the  best  of  all  the  books  of  this  kind 
that  have  been  written,  and  so,  as  something  singular 
in  its  line,  it  ought  to  be  pardoned.” 

“True,”  said  the  curate;  “and  for  that  reason  let 
its  life  be  spared  for  the  present.  Let  us  see  that 
other  which  is  next  to  it.” 

“ It  is,”  said  the  barber,  “ the  ‘ Sergas  de  Esplan- 
dian,  the  lawful  son  of  Amadis  of  Gaul.’  ” ‘ 

“ Then  verily,”  said  the  curate,  “the  merit  of  the 
father  must  not  be  put  down  to  the  account  of  the 
son.  Take  it,  mistress  housekeeper;  open  the  win- 
dow and  fling  it  into  the  yard  and  lay  the  foundation 
of  the  pile  for  the  bonfire  we  are  to  make.” 

The  housekeeper  obeyed  with  great  satisfaction,  and 
the  worthy  “ Esplandian  ” went  flying  into  the  yard 
to  await  with  all  patience  the  fire  that  was  in  store  for 
him.  ^ 

“ Proceed,”  said  the  curate. 

“This  that  comes  next,”  said  the  barber,  “is 
‘ Amadis  of  Greece,’  ^ and,  indeed,  I believe  all  those 
on  this  side  are  of  the  same  Amadis  lineage.” 

“Then  to  the  yard  with  the  whole  of  them,”  said 


^ Las  Sergas  las  epya  — the  achievements)  de  Esplandian  (1521) 
forms  the  fifth  book  of  the  Amadis  Series,  and  is  the  composition  of  Mon- 
talvo himself,  as  is  also,  apparently,  the  fourth  book  of  Amadis  of  Gaul. 
He  only  claims  to  have  edited  the  first  three. 

2 Amadis  of  Greece,  by  Feliciano  de  Silva  (1535),  forms  the  ninth  book 
of  the  Amadis  Series.  Pintiquiniestra  was  Queen  of  Sobradisa,  and  Darinel 
was  a shepherd  and  wrestler  of  Alexandria.  The  Spanish  romances  of  “ the 
lineage  of  Amadis”  are  twelve  in  number,  and  there  are  besides  doubtful 
members  of  the  family  in  Italian  and  French. 


192 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


the  curate  ; “ for  to  have  the  burning  of  Queen  Pinti- 
quiniestra,  and  the  shepherd  Darinel  and  his  eclogues, 
and  the  bedevilled  and  involved  discourses  of  his 
author,  I would  burn  with  them  the  fatlier  who  begot 
me  if  he  were  going  about  in  the  guise  of  a knight- 
errant.” 

“ I am  of  the  same  mind,”  said  the  barber. 

“ And  so  am  I,”  added  the  niece. 

“ In  that  case,”  said  the  housekeeper,  “ here,  into 
the  yard  with  them  ! ” 

They  were  handed  to  her,  and  as  there  were  many 
of  them,  she  spared  herself  the  staircase,  and  flung 
them  down  out  of  the  window. 

“ Who  is  that  tub  there?  ” said  the  curate. 

“ This,”  said  the  barber,  “ is  ‘ Don  Olivante  de 
Laura.’  ” ‘ 

“ The  author  of  that  book,”  said  the  curate,  “ was 
the  same  that  wrote  ‘ The  Garden  of  Flowers,’  and 
truly  there  is  no  deciding  which  of  the  two  books  is 
the  more  truthful,  or,  to  put  it  better,  the  less  lying ; 
all  I can  say  is,  send  this  one  into  the  yard  for  a 
swaggering  fool.” 


* Olivante  de  Laura,  by  Antonio  de  Torquemada,  appeared  first  at  Bar- 
celona in  1564.  Gayangos  suggests  that  Cervantes  must  have  been  thinking 
of  a later  quarto  or  octavo  edition,  for  the  original  folio  is  not  so  exceptionally 
stout  as  the  description  in  the  text  implies.  The  Garden  of  Floiuers  (1575), 
a treatise  of  wonders  natural  and  supernatural,  was  translated  into  English 
in  1600  as  The  Spanish  Mandeville,  a title  which  may  seem  to  justify  the 
curate’s  criticism;  but  it  does  not  come  with  a good  grace  from  Cervantes, 
who  made  free  use  of  the  book  in  the  First  Part  of  Persiles  and  Sigis- 
tnunda,  and  in  the  Second  Part  of  Don  Quixote.  The  book  is  really  an 
entertaining  one. 


CHAPTER  VI. 


193 


‘‘  This  that  follows  is  ‘ Florismarte  of  Hircania,’  ” 
said  the  barber.' 

“ Sehor  Florismarte  here  ? ” said  the  curate  ; “ then 
by  my  faith  he  must  take  up  his  quarters  in  the  yard, 
in  spite  of  his  marvellous  birth  and  visionary  adven- 
tures, for  the  stiffness  and  dryness  of  his  style  deserve 
nothing  else ; into  the  yard  with  him  and  the  other, 
mistress  housekeeper.” 

‘‘  With  all  my  heart,  sehor,”  said  she,  and  executed 
the  order  with  great  delight. 

“ This,”  said  the  barber,  “ is  ‘ The  Knight 
Platir.’  ” ^ 

An  old  book  that,”  said  the  curate,  “ but  I find 
no  reason  for  clemency  in  it ; send  it  after  the  others 
without  appeal ; ” which  was  done. 

Another  book  was  opened,  and  they  saw  it  was 
entitled,  “The  Knight  of  the  Cross.” 

“ For  the  sake  of  the  holy  name  this  book  has,” 
said  the  curate,  “ its  ignorance  might  be  excused  ; but 
then,  they  say,  ‘ behind  the  cross  there’s  the  devil ; ’ 
to  the  fire  with  it.”  3 


* The  correct  title  is  Historia  del  nnty  A niinoso  y Esforzado  Principe 
Felixjnarte  de  Hircania,  but  the  hero  is  also  called  Florismarte.  It  was 
by  Melchor  Ortega  de  Ubeda,  and  appeared  in  1556. 

2 Platir  is  the  fourth  book  of  the  Palmerin  Series.  The  hero  is  the  son 
of  Primaleon,  and  grandson  of  Palmerin  de  Oliva.  Its  author  is  unknown. 
It  appeared  first  in  1533. 

3 The  Knight  of  the  Cross  appeared  in  two  parts  : the  first,  under  the 
title  of  Lepolemo,  by  an  unknown  author,  in  1543;  the  second,  with  the 
achievements  of  Leandro  el  Bel,  the  son  of  Lepolemo,  by  Pedro  de  Luxan, 
in  1563.  “ Behind  the  Cross,”  etc.,  Prov.  75,  was  evidently  a favorite  prov- 
erb with  Cervantes. 


194 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


Taking  down  another  book,  the  barber  said,  “ This 
is  ‘The  Mirror  of  Chivalry.’  ” ‘ 

“ I know  his  worship,”  said  the  curate ; “ that  is 
where  Senor  Reinaldos  of  Montalvan  figures  with  his 
friends  and  comrades,  greater  thieves  than  Cacus,  and 
the  Twelve  Peers  of  France  with  the  veracious  histo- 
rian Turpin ; however,  I am  not  for  condemning  them 
to  more  than  perpetual  banishment,  because,  at  any 
rate,  they  have  some  share  in  the  invention  of  the 
famous  Matteo  Boiardo,  whence  too  the  Christian  poet 
Ludovico  Ariosto  wove  his  web,  to  whom,  if  I find  him 
here,  and  speaking  any  language  but  his  own,  I shall 
show  no  respect  whatever ; but  if  he  speaks  his  own 
tongue  I will  put  him  upon  my  head.”  ^ 

“ Well,  I have  him  in  Italian,”  said  the  barber,  “ but 
I do  not  understand  him.” 

“Nor  would  it  be  well  that  you  should  understand 
him,”  said  the  curate,  “ and  on  that  score  we  might 
have  excused  the  Captain  ^ if  he  had  not  brought  him 

* The  Mirror  of  Chivalry  — Espejo  de  Caballerias  — was  published  at 
Seville  in  four  parts,  1533-50.  Next  to  the  history  of  Charlemagne  and  the 
Twelve  Peers,  it  was  the  most  popular  of  the  Carlovingian  series  of  romances. 
It  is  creditable  to  Cervantes  as  a critic  that  he  should  have  mentioned  Boiardo 
as  he  does,  at  a time  when  it  was  the  fashion  to  regard  the  Orlaado  Itinamo- 
rato  as  a rude  and  semi  barbarous  production,  only  endurable  in  t\\Qrifaci- 
mento  of  Ludovico  Domenichi. 

2 An  Oriental  mode  of  showing  respect  for  a document. 

3 Geronimo  Jimenez  de  Urrea,  whose  translation  of  Ariosto  into  Spanish 
was  first  printed  at  Antwerp  in  1549.  This  is  not  the  only  passage  in  which 
Cervantes  declares  against  translation.  In  chapter  Ixii.  of  the  Second  Part 
he  puts  his  objection  still  more  strongly,  and  there  extends  it  to  translation 
of  prose.  And  yet  of  all  great  writers  there  is  not  one  who  is  under  such 
obligations  to  translation  as  Cervantes.  The  influence  of  Homer  and  Virgil 
would  be  scarcely  less  than  it  is  if  they  had  never  been  translated ; Shake- 


CHAPTER  VL 


195 


into  Spain  and  turned  him  into  Castilian.  He  robbed 
liim  of  a great  deal  of  his  natural  force,  and  so  do  all 
those  who  try  to  turn  books  written  in  verse  into 
another  language,  for,  with  all  the  pains  they  take  and 
all  the  cleverness  they  show,  they  never  can  reach  the 
level  of  the  originals  as  they  were  first  produced.  In 
short,  I say  that  this  book,  and  all  that  may  be  found 
treating  of  those  French  affairs,  should  be  thrown  into 
or  deposited  in  some  dry  well,  until  after  more  con- 
sideration it  is  settled  what  is  to  be  done  with  them ; 
excepting  always  one  ‘ Bernardo  del  Carpio  ’ that  is 
going  about,  and  another  called  ‘ Roncesvalles ; ’ for 
these,  if  they  come  into  my  hands,  shall  pass  into 
those  of  the  housekeeper,  and  from  hers  into  the  fire 
without  any  reprieve.”  ' 

To  all  this  the  barber  gave  his  assent,  and  looked 
upon  it  as  right  and  proper,  being  persuaded  that  the 
curate  was  so  stanch  to  the  Faith  and  loyal  to  the 
Truth  that  he  would  not  for  the  world  say  any  thing 
opposed  to  them.  Opening  another  book  he  saw  it 
was  “ Palmerin  de  Oliva,”  and  beside  it  was  another 
called  “ Palmerin  of  England,”  seeing  which  the  licen- 
tiate said,  Let  the  Olive  be  made  firewood  of  at 
once  and  burned  until  no  ashes  even  are  left ; and  let 

speare  and  Milton  wrote  in  a language  destined  to  become  the  most  widely- 
read  on  the  face  of  the  globe,  and  no  reader  of  any  culture  needs  an  inter- 
preter for  Moliere  or  Le  Sage.  But  how  would  Cervantes  have  fared  in  the 
world  if,  according  to  his  own  principles,  he  had  been  confined  to  his  native 
Castilian  ? 

* The  condemned  books  are  the  History  of  the  deeds  of  Bernardo  del 
Carpio,  by  Augustin  Alonso  of  Salamanca  (Toledo,  1585) ; and  the  Famous 
Battle  of  Roncesvalles,  by  Francisco  Garrido  de  Villena  (Valencia,  1555). 


196 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


that  Palm  of  England  be  kept  and  preserved  as  a 
thing  that  stands  alone,  and  let  such  another  case  be 
made  for  it  as  that  which  Alexander  found  among  the 
spoils  of  Darius  and  set  aside  for  the  safe  keeping  of 
the  works  of  the  poet  Homer.  This  book,  gossip,  is 
of  authority  for  two  reasons,  first  because  it  is  very 
good,  and  secondly  because  it  is  said  to  have  been 
written  by  a wise  and  witty  king  of  Portugal.'  All 
the  adventures  at  the  Castle  of  Miraguarda  ^ are  ex- 
cellent and  of  admirable  contrivance,  and  the  lan- 
guage is  polished  and  clear,  studying  and  observing 
the  style  befitting  the  speaker  with  propriety  and 
judgment.  So  then,  provided  it  seems  good  to  you, 
Master  Nicholas,  I say  let  this  and  ‘ Amadis  of  Gaul  ’ 
be  remitted  the  penalty  of  fire,  and  as  for  all  the  rest, 
let  them  perish  without  further  question  or  query.” 

“ Nay,  gossip,”  said  the  barber,  “ for  this  that  I 
have  here  is  the  famous  ‘ Don  Belianis.’  ” ^ 

“ Well,”  said  the  curate,  “ that  and  the  second, 


* Pahnerin  de  Oliva,  the  founder  of  the  Palmerin  Series  of  Romances, 
was  first  printed  at  Salamanca  in  1511.  It  is  said  to  have  been  written  by 
a lady  of  Angustobriga  (i.e.  Burgos,  according  to  some,  but  more  probably 
Ciudad  Rodrigo),  but  nothing  certain  is  known  of  the  author.  Palmerin 
de  Inglatcrra,  like  Amadis,  was  until  lately  supposed  to  be,  as  Cervantes 
supposed  it,  of  Portuguese  origin ; but  the  question  was  settled  a few  years 
ago  by  Vicente  Salva,  who  discovered  a Toledo  edition  of  1547,  twenty  years 
earlier  than  the  Portuguese  edition  on  which  the  claims  of  Francisco  de 
Moraes,  or  of  John  II.,  rested.  An  acrostic  gives  the  name  of  the  author, 
Luis  Hurtado. 

2 Miraguarda  is  not  the  name  of  the  Castle,  but  of  the  lady  who  lived  in 
it,  and  whose  charms  were  the  cause  of  the  adventures. 

3 Beliatiis  de  Grecia,  already  mentioned  in  the  first  chapter  as  one  of 
Don  Quixote’s  special  studies. 


CHAPTER  VI. 


197 


third,  and  fourth  parts  all  stand  in  need  of  a little 
rhubarb  to  purge  their  excess  of  bile,  and  they  must 
be  cleared  of  all  that  stuff  about  the  Castle  of  Fame 
and  other  greater  affectations,  to  which  end  let  them 
be  allowed  the  over-seas  term,'  and,  according  as  they 
mend,  so  shall  mercy  or  justice  be  meted  out  to  them  ; 
and  in  the  mean  time,  gossip,  do  you  keep  them  in 
your  house  and  let  no  one  read  them.” 

With  all  my  heart,”  said  the  barber ; and  not 
caring  to  tire  himself  with  reading  more  books  of 
chivalry,  he  told  the  housekeeper  to  take  all  the  big 
ones  and  throw  them  into  the  yard.  It  was  not  said 
to  one  dull  or  deaf,  but  to  one  who  enjoyed  burning 
them  more  than  weaving  the  broadest  and  finest  web 
that  could  be  ; and  seizing  about  eight  at  a time,  she 
flung  them  out  of  the  window. 

In  carrying  so  many  together  she  let  one  fall  at  the 
feet  of  the  barber,  who  took  it  up,  curious  to  know 
whose  it  was,  and  found  it  said,  “ History  of  the 
Famous  Knight,  Tirante  el  Blanco.” 

“ God  bless  me  ! ” said  the  curate  with  a shout, 
“ ‘ Tirante  el  Blanco  ’ here  ! Hand  it  over,  gossip, 
for  in  it  I reckon  I have  found  a treasury  of  enjoy- 
ment and  a mine  of  recreation.  Here  is  Don  Kyri- 
eleison  of  Montalvan,  a valiant  knight,  and  his  brother 
Thomas  of  Montalvan,  and  the  knight  Fonseca,  with 
the  battle  the  bold  Tirante  fought  with  the  mastiff, 

* The  “ over-seas  term”  was  the  allowance  of  time  granted  in  the  case  of 
persons  beyond  the  seas,  when  sued  or  indicted,  to  enable  them  to  appear  and 
show  cause  why  judgment  should  not  be  given  against  them. 


98 


£>OJV  QUIXOTE. 


and  the  witticisms  of  the  damsel  Placerdemivida,  and 
the  loves  and  wiles  of  the  widow  Reposada,  and  the 
empress  in  love  with  the  squire  Hipolito  — in  truth, 
gossip,  by  right  of  its  style  it  is  the  best  book  in  the 
world.  Here  knights  eat  and  sleep,  and  die  in  their 
beds,  and  make  their  wills  before  dying,  and  a great 
deal  more  of  which  there  is  nothing  in  all  the  other 
books.  Nevertheless,  I say  he  who  wrote  it,  for  delib- 
erately composing  such  fooleries,  deserves  to  be  sent  to 
the  galleys  for  life.  Take  it  home  with  you  and  read 
it,  and  you  will  see  that  what  I have  said  is  true.”  ' 

“ As  you  will,”  said  the  barber ; but  what  are  we 
to  do  with  these  little  books  that  are  left?  ” 

These  must  be,  not  chivalry,  but  poetry,”  said  the 
curate ; and  opening  one  he  saw  it  was  the  ‘‘  Diana” 
of  Jorge  de  Montemayor,  and,  supposing  all  the  others 
to  be  of  the  same  sort,  ‘These,”  he  said,  “do  not 
deserve  to  be  burned  like  tlie  others,  for  they  neither  do 
nor  can  do  the  mischief  the  books  of  chivalry  have  done, 
being  books  of  entertainment  that  can  hurt  no  one.” 

“ Ah,  senor  ! ” said  the  niece,  “ your  worship  had 

^ Tiraiite  el  Blanco  is  the  title  of  the  translation  into  Castilian  of  the 
romance  of  Tirant  lo  Blanch,  first  published  in  Valencian  at  Valencia  in 
1490.  Joanot  Mariorell,  who  is  said  to  have  translated  it  from  English  into 
Portuguese  and  thence  into  Valencian,  was  no  doubt  the  author.  Only  three 
copies  are  known  to  exist,  one  in  the  University  at  Valencia,  another  in  the 
College  of  the  Sapienza  in  Rome,  and  the  third  in  the  British  Museum.  The 
Castilian  version  appeared  at  Valladolid  in  1511.  Don  Pascual  de  Gayangos 
is  in  doubt  whether  the  curate’s  eulogy  is  to  be  taken  as  ironical  or  serious, 
but  rather  inclines  to  the  belief  that  Cervantes  meant  to  praise  the  book.  It 
would  be  rash  to  differ  with  such  an  authority,  otherwise  I should  say  that  the 
laudation  is  rather  too  boisterously  expressed  and  too  like  the  extravagant 
eulogy  of  Lo  Frasso  farther  on,  to  be  sincerely  meant. 


CHAPTER  VI. 


99 


better  order  these  to  be  burned  as  well  as  the  others ; 
for  it  would  be  no  wonder  if,  after  being  cured  of  his 
chivalry  disorder,  my  uncle,  by  reading  these,  took  a 
fancy  to  turn  shepherd  and  range  the  woods  and  fields 
singing  and  piping ; or,  what  would  be  still  worse,  to 
turn  poet,  which  they  say  is  an  incurable  and  infectious 
malady.” 

“The  damsel  is  right,”  said  the  curate,  “and  it  will 
be  well  to  put  this  stumbling-block  and  temptation 
out  of  our  friend’s  way.  To  begin,  then,  with  the 
^ Diana  ’ of  Montemayor.  I am  of  opinion  it  should 
not  be  burned,  but  that  it  should  be  cleared  of  all 
that  about  the  sage  Felicia  and  the  magic  water,  and 
of  almost  all  the  longer  pieces  of  verse  : let  it  keep, 
and  welcome,  its  prose  and  the  honor  of  being  the 
first  of  books  of  the  kind.” 

“This  that  comes  next,”  said  the  barber,  “is  the 
‘ Diana,’  entitled  the  ‘ Second  Part,  by  the  Salaman- 
can,’  and  this  other  has  the  same  title,  and  its  author 
is  Gil  Polo.” 

“As  for  that  of  the  Salamancan,”  replied  the  curate, 
“ let  it  go  to  swell  the  number  of  the  condemned  in 
the  yard,  and  let  Gil  Polo’s  be  preserved  as  if  it  came 
from  Apollo  himself : ' but  get  on,  gossip,  and  make 
haste,  for  it  is  growing  late.” 


* Los  Siete  Libros  de  la  Diana  de  Jorge  de  Montemayor.  Impreso  e7t 
Valencia,  4to.  The  first  edition  is  undated,  but  from  the  dedication  appears 
to  have  been  printed  in  the  author’s  lifetime.  He  died  in  1561,  in  whicli  year 
the  second  edition,  with  additions,  appeared.  {V.  note  page  184.)  The 
Diana  was  the  first  and  best  of  the  Spanish  pastoral  romances,  the  taste  for 
which  was  created  by  Sannazaro’s  A rcadia.  The  Salamancan  was  Alonso 


200 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


“This  book,”  said  the  barber,  opening  another,  “ is 
the  ten  books  of  the  ‘ Fortune  of  Love,’  written  by 
Antonio  de  Lofraso,  a Sardinian  poet.” 

“By  the  orders  I have  received,”  said  the  curate, 
“ since  Apollo  has  been  Apollo,  and  the  Muses  have 
been  Muses,  and  poets  have  been  poets,  so  droll  and 
absurd  a book  as  this  has  never  been  written,  and  in 
its  way  it  is  the  best  and  the  most  singular  of  all  of 
this  species  that  have  as  yet  appeared,  and  he  who 
has  not  read  it  may  be  sure  he  has  never  read  what 
is  delightful.  Give  it  here,  gossip,  for  I make  more 
account  of  having  found  it  than  if  they  had  given  me 
a cassock  of  Florence  stuff.”  ‘ 

He  put  it  aside  with  extreme  satisfaction,  and  the 
barber  went  on,  “ These  that  come  next  are  ‘ The 
Shepherd  of  Iberia,’  ‘The  Nymphs  of  Henares,’  and 
‘ The  Enlightenment  of  Jealousy.’  ” ^ 

“Then  all  we  have  to  do,”  said  the  curate,  “is  to 


Perez,  who  published  a continuation  of  the  Dia7ia  at  Alcala  de  Henares  in 
1564,  but  Gil  Polo’s,  printed  the  same  year  at  Valencia,  has  been  generally 
preferred.  The  pun  on  Polo  and  Apolo  is  not  so  obvious  in  English.  An 
excellent  English  translation  of  all  three  by  Bartholomew  Yong  was  published 
in  1598. 

* The  Fortuiia  d'Ainor,  por  Antonio  de  lo  Frasso,  Militar,  Sardo, 
appeared  at  Barcelona  in  1573.  In  the  Viage  del  Parnaso  Cervantes  treats 
the  book  in  the  same  bantering  strain,  which  misled  Pedro  de  Pineda,  one  of 
the  editors  of  Lord  Carteret’s  Quixote,  and  induced  him  to  bring  out  a new 
edition  in  1740.  The  book  is  an  utterly  worthless  one,  and  highly  prized  by 
collectors. 

2 The  books  here  referred  to  are  the  Pastor  de  Iberia,  by  Bernardo  de  la 
Vega  (Seville,  1591);  the  Nimphas  y Pastores  de  Hectares,  by  Bernardo 
Gonzalez  de  Bovadilla  (Alcala  de  Henares,  1587);  and  the  Desengano  de 
Zelos,  by  Bartolme  Lopez  de  Enciso  (Madrid,  1586). 


CHAPTER  VI. 


201 


hand  them  over  to  the  secular  arm  of  the  housekeeper, 
and  ask  me  not  why,  or  we  shall  never  have  done.” 

^‘This  next  is  the  ^ Pastor  de  Filida.’  ” 

“ No  Pastor  that,”  said  the  curate,  ‘‘  but  a highly 
polished  courtier ; let  it  be  preserved  as  a precious 
jewel.”  ' 

“This  large  one  here,”  said  the  barber,  “is  called 
‘ The  Treasury  of  various  Poems.’  ” 

“If  there  were  not  so  many  of  them,”  said  the 
curate,  “ they  would  be  more  relished : this  book 
must  be  weeded  and  cleansed  of  certain  vulgarities 
which  it  has  with  its  excellences ; let  it  be  preserved 
because  the  author  is  a friend  of  mine,  and  out  of 
respect  for  other  more  heroic  and  loftier  works  that 
he  has  written.”  ^ 

“ This,”  continued  the  barber,  “ is  the  ‘ Cancionero  ’ 
of  Lopez  de  Maldonado.”  3 

“The  author  of  that  book,  too,”  said  the  curate, 
“ is  a great  friend  of  mine,  and  his  verses  from  his 
own  mouth  are  the  admiration  of  all  who  hear  them, 
for  such  is  the  sweetness  of  his  voice  that  he  enchants 

^ The  Pastor  de  Filida  (Madrid,  1582),  one  of  the  best  of  the  pastorals, 
was  by  Luis  Galvez  de  Montalvo  of  Guadalajara,  a retainer  of  the  great 
Mendoza  family,  and  apparently  an  intimate  personal  friend  of  Cervantes, 
who,  under  the  name  of  Tirsi,  is  referred  to  in  the  pastoral  as  a clarissimo 
itigenzo  worthy  of  being  mentioned  with  Ercilla.  Montalvo,  in  return,  is 
introduced  under  the  name  of  Siralvo  into  the  Galatea  of  Cervantes,  to 
which  he  contributed  a complimentary  sonnet. 

2 Tesoro  de  vari'as  Poestas,  compuesto  par  Pedro  de  Padilla  (Madrid, 
1580).  The  author  is  one  of  those  praised  by  Cervantes  in  the  “Canto  de 
Caliope  ” in  the  Galatea. 

3 Lopez  de  Maldonado,  whose  Cancionero  appeared  at  Madrid  in  1586, 
is  another  of  the  poets  praised  in  the  Galatea. 


202 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


when  he  chants  them  : it  gives  rather  too  much  of  its 
eclogues,  but  what  is  good  was  never  yet  plentiful ; * 
let  it  be  kept  with  those  that,  have  been  set  apart. 
But  what  book  is  that  next  it?  ” 

‘‘  The  ‘ Galatea  ’ of  Miguel  de  Cervantes,”  said  the 
barber. 

“ That  Cervantes  has  been  for  many  years  a great 
friend  of  mine,  and  to  my  knowledge  he  has  had 
more  experience  in  reverses  than  in  verses.  His 
book  has  some  good  invention  in  it,  it  presents  us 
with  something  but  brings  nothing  to  a conclusion  : 
we  must  wait  for  the  Second  Part  it  promises  : perhaps 
with  amendment  it  may  succeed  in  winning  the  full 
measure  of  grace  that  is  now  denied  it ; and  in  the 
mean  time  do  you,  senor  gossip,  keep  it  shut  up  in 
your  own  quarters.”  ^ 

“Very  good,”  said  the  barber;  “and  here  come 
three  together,  the  ‘ Araucana  ’ of  Don  Alonso  de 
Ercilla,  the  ‘ Austriada  ’ of  Juan  Rufo,  Justice  of  Cor- 
dova, and  the  ‘ Montserrate  ’ of  Christobal  de  Virues, 
the  Valencian  poet.”  ^ 

^ Prov.  26. 

2 The  play  upon  words  in  the  original  is  “ more  versed  in  misfortunes 
than  in  verses.”  This  introduction  of  himself  and  his  forgotten  pastoral  is 
Cervantes  all  over  in  its  tone  of  playful  stoicism  with  a certain  quiet  self- 
assertion.  It  shows,  moreover,  pretty  clearly,  that  until  Don  Quixote  had 
made  the  author’s  name  known,  the  Gnlaiea  had  remained  unnoticed. 

3 These  three  are  examples  of  Spanish  epic  poetry.  Araucana 

Ercilla  (Madrid,  1569,  1578,  1590)  is,  next  to  the  Poem  of  the  Cid,  the  best 
effort  in  that  direction  in  the  language.  The  Austriada,  which  appeared 
first  at  Madrid  in  1584,  deals  with  the  life  and  achievements  of  Don  John 
of  Austria,  but  it  was  probably  the  memory  of  Lepanto  rather  than  the  merits 
of  the  poem  that  made  Cervantes  give  it  a place  here.  The  Montserrate  of 


CHAPTER  Vr. 


203 


These  three  books,”  said  the  curate,  “are  the  best 
that  have  been  written  in  Castilian  in  heroic  verse, 
and  they  may  compare  with  the  most  famous  of  Italy ; 
let  them  be  preserved  as  the  richest  treasures  of 
poetry  that  Spain  possesses.” 

The  curate  was  tired  and  would  not  look  into  any 
more  books,  and  so  he  decided  that,  “ contents  uncer- 
tified,” all  the  rest  should  be  burned ; but  just  then 
the  barber  held  open  one,  called  “ The  Tears  of 
Angelica.” 

“ I should  have  shed  tears  myself,”  said  the  curate 
when  he  heard  the  title,  “ had  I ordered  that  book  to 
be  burned,  for  its  author  was  one  of  the  famous  poets 
of  the  world,  not  to  say  of  Spain,  and  was  very  happy 
in  the  translation  of  some  of  Ovid’s  fables.”  ' 

the  dramatist  Virues  (Madrid,  1588)  had  for  its  subject  the  repulsive  Oriental 
legend  which  became  popular  in  Spain  with  Garin  the  hermit  of  Monserrat 
for  its  hero,  and  which  M.  G.  Lewis  made  the  foundation  of  his  famous 
romance.  The  Monk. 

^ The  anti-climax  here  almost  equals  that  famous  one  of  Waller’s: 

“ Under  the  tropic  is  our  language  spoke. 

And  part  of  Flanders  hath  received  our  yoke.” 

The  book  referred  to  was  entitled  simply  the  A ngeltca  by  Luis  Barahona 
de  Soto  (Madrid,  1586).  In  his  praise  of  this  poem  we  have  one  more 
instance  of  Cervantes’  loyalty  to  a friend  getting  the  better  of  his  critical 
judgment. 


DON  QUIXOl'E. 


CHAPTER  VIL  . 

OF  THE  SECOND  SALLY  OF  OUR  WORTHY  KNIGHT  DON 
QUIXOTE  OF  LA  MANCHA. 

At  this  instant  Don  Quixote  began  shouting  out, 
Here,  here,  valiant  knights  ! here  is  need  for  you  to 
put  forth  the  might  of  your  strong  arms,  for  they  of 
the  Court  are  gaining  the  mastery  in  the  tourney  ! ” 
Called  away  by  this  noise  and  outcry,  they  proceeded 
no  farther  with  the  scrutiny  of  the  remaining  books, 
and  so  it  is  thought  that  ‘‘  The  Carolea,”  ‘‘  The  Lion 
of  Spain,”  and  “The  Deeds  of  the  Emperor,”  written 
by  Don  Luis  de  Avila,  went  to  the  fire  unseen  and 
unheard ; for  no  doubt  they  were  among  those  that 
remained,  and  perhaps  if  the  curate  had  seen  them 
they  would  not  have  undergone  so  severe  a sentence.* 
When  they  reached  Don  Quixote  he  was  already 
out  of  bed,  and  was  still  shouting  and  raving,  and 
slashing  and  cutting  all  round,  as  wide  awake  as  if  he 
had  never  slept. 


204 


^ The  books  referred  to  are  the  Carolea  o{  Geronimo  Sempere  (1560), 
which  deals  with  the  victories  of  Charles  V. ; the  Leoti  de  Espana,  by  Pedro 
de  la  Vezilla,  a poem  on  the  history  of  the  city  of  Leon;  and,  probably,  the 
Carlo  Famoso  of  Louis  Zapata,  for  there  is  no  book  known  with  the  title 
of  The  Deeds  0/  the  Emperor,  and  the  work  of  Avila  is  simply  a prose 
commentary  on  the  wars  against  the  Protestants  of  Germany, 


tIBPARy 
Of  THE 

UNIVEKSITT  Of  ILLINOIS 


CHAPTEJ^  VII. 


205 


They  closed  with  him  and  by  force  got  him  back  to 
bed,  and  when  he  had  become  a little  calm,  address- 
ing the  curate,  he  said  to  him,  “ Of  a truth,  Sehor 
Archbishop  Turpin,*  it  is  a great  disgrace  for  us  who 
call  ourselves  the  Twelve  Peers,  so  carelessly  to  allow 
the  knights  of  the  Court  to  gain  the  victory  in  this 
tourney,  we  the  adventurers  having  carried  off  the 
honor  on  the  three  former  days.” 

“ Hush,  gossip,”  said  the  curate  ; “ please  God,  the 
luck  may  turn,  and  what  is  lost  to-day  may  be  won 
to-morrow ; ^ for  the  present  let  your  worship  have  a 
care  of  your  health,  for  it  seems  to  me  that  you  are 
over-fatigued,  if  not  badly  wounded.” 

“Wounded  no,”  said  Don  Quixote,  “but  bruised 
and  battered  no  doubt,  for  that  bastard  Don  Roland 
has  cudgelled  me  with  the  trunk  of  an  oak  tree,  and 
all  for  envy,  because  he  sees  that  I alone  rival  him 
in  his  achievements.  But  I should  not  call  myself 
Reinaldos  of  Montalvan  did  he  not  pay  me  for  it 
in  spite  of  all  his  enchantments  as  soon  as  I rise 
from  this  bed.  For  the  present  let  them  bring  me 
something  to  eat,  for  that,  I feel,  is  what  will  be 
more  to  my  purpose,  and  leave  it  to  me  to  avenge 
myself.” 

They  did  as  he  wished ; they  gave  him  something 


* Turpin  (or  Tilpin) , Charlemagne’s  chaplain,  and  Archbishop  of  Rheims: 
according  to  the  Chanson  de  Roland,  one  of  those  slain  at  Roncesvalles; 
but  also  claimed  as  author  of  the  Chronicle  of  Charlemagne,  which,  how- 
ever, was  probably  not  composed  before  the  end  of  the  eleventh  or  beginning 
of  the  twelfth  century.  He  died  in  the  year  of  the  Roncesvalles  rout,  778. 

2 Prov.  188. 


2o6 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


to  eat,  and  once  more  he  fell  asleep,  leaving  them 
marvelling  at  his  madness. 

That  night  the  housekeeper  burned  to  ashes  all  the 
books  that  were  in  the  yard  and  in  the  whole  house ; 
and  some  must  have  been  consumed  that  deserved 
preservation  in  everlasting  archives,  but  their  fate  and 
the  laziness  of  the  examiner  did  not  permit  it,  and  so 
in  them  was  verified  the  proverb  that  sometimes  the 
innocent  suffer  for  the  guilty.* 

One  of  the  remedies  which  the  curate  and  the 
barber  immediately  applied  to  their  friend’s  disorder 
was  to  wall  up  and  plaster  the  room  where  the  books 
were,  so  that  when  he  got  up  he  should  not  find  them 
(possibly  the  cause  being  removed,  the  effect  might 
cease),  and  they  might  say  that  a magician  had 
carried  them  off,  room  and  all ; and  this  was  done 
with  all  despatch.  Two  days  later  Don  Quixote  got 
up,  and  the  first  thing  he  did  was  to  go  and  look  at 
his  books,  and  not  finding  the  room  where  he  had 
left  it,  he  wandered  from  side  to  side  looking  for  it. 
He  came  to  the  place  where  the  door  used  to  be,  and 
tried  it  with  his  hands,  and  turned  and  twisted  his 
eyes  in  every  direction  without  saying  a word ; but 
after  a good  while  he  asked  his  housekeeper  where- 
abouts was  the  room  that  held  his  books. 

The  housekeeper,  who  had  been  already  well  in- 
structed in  what  she  was  to  answer,  said,  “ What  room 
or  what  nothing  is  it  that  your  worship  is  looking  for? 


Prov.  165. 


CHAPTER  VII. 


207 


There  are  neither  room  nor  books  in  this  house  now, 
for  the  devil  himself  has  carried  all  away.” 

“ It  was  not  the  devil,”  said  the  niece,  ‘‘  but  a 
magician  who  came  on  a cloud  one  night  after  the 
day  your  worship  left  this,  and  dismounting  from  a 
serpent  that  he  rode  he  entered  the  room,  and  what 
he  did  there  I know  not,  but  after  a little  while  he 
made  off,  flying  through  the  roof,  and  left  the  house 
full  of  smoke  ; and  when  we  went  to  see  what  he  had 
done  we  saw  neither  book  nor  room  : but  we  re- 
member very  well,  the  housekeeper  and  I,  that  on 
leaving,  the  old  villain  said  in  a loud  voice  that,  for  a 
private  grudge  he  owed  the  owner  of  the  books  and 
the  room,  he  had  done  mischief  in  that  house  that 
would  be  discovered  by-and-by : he  said  too  that  his 
name  was  the  Sage  Muhaton.” 

He  must  have  said  Friston,”  ' said  Don  Quixote. 

‘‘  I don’t  know  whether  he  called  himself  Friston 
or  Friton,”  said  the  housekeeper,  ‘‘  I only  know  that 
his  name  ended  with  ‘ ton.’  ” 

“ So  it  does,”  said  Don  Quixote,  ‘‘  and  he  is  a sage 
magician,  a great  enemy  of  mine,  who  has  a spite 
against  me  because  he  knows  by  his  arts  and  lore 
that  in  process  of  time  I am  to  engage  in  single  com- 
bat with  a knight  whom  he  befriends  and  that  I 
am  to  conquer,  and  he  will  be  unable  to  prevent  it ; 
and  for  this  reason  he  endeavors  to  do  me  all  the 
ill  turns  that  he  can ; but  I promise  him  it  will  be 


* Friston,  a magician,  the  reputed  author  of  Beliatiis  de  Grecia. 


208 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


hard  for  him  to  oppose  or  avoid  what  is  decreed  by 
Heaven.” 

‘‘Who  doubts  that?”  said^  the  niece;  “but,  uncle, 
who  mixes  you  up  in  these  quarrels?  Would  it  not 
be  better  to  remain  at  peace  in  your  own  house  in- 
stead of  roaming  the  world  looking  for  better  bread 
than  ever  came  of  wheat,'  never  reflecting  that  many 
go  for  wool  and  come  back  shorn  ? ” ^ 

“ Oh,  niece  of  mine,”  replied  Don  Quixote,  “ how 
much  astray  art  thou  in  thy  reckoning  ; ere  they  shear 
me  I shall  have  plucked  away  and  stripped  off  the 
beards  of  all  who  would  dare  to  touch  only  the  tip 
of  a hair  of  mine.” 

The  two  were  unwilling  to  make  any  further  answer, 
as  they  saw  that  his  anger  was  kindling. 

In  short,  then,  he  remained  at  liome  fifteen  days 
very  quietly  without  showing  any  signs  of  a desire  to 
take  up  with  his  former  delusions,  and  during  this 
time  he  held  lively  discussions  with  his  two  gossips, 
the  curate  and  the  barber,  on  the  point  he  maintained, 
that  knights-errant  were  what  the  world  stood  most  in 
need  of,  and  that  in  him  was  to  be  accomplished  the 
revival  of  knight-errantry.  The  curate  sometimes  con- 
tradicted him,  sometimes  agreed  with  him,  for  if  he 


* Prov.  171.  Buscar  pan  de  trastrigo  : there  is  some  diflerence  of 
opinion  as  to  the  meaning  of  trastrigo,  but  it  seems  on  the  whole  more 
probable  that  it  means  wheat  of  such  superlative  quality  as  to  be  unattain- 
able ; at  any  rate,  the  proverb  is  used  in  reference  to  seeking  things  that  are 
out  of  reach. 

2 Prov.  124.  A very  old  proverb,  as  old  at  least  as  the  poem  of  Fernan 
Gonzalez. 


CHAPTER  VI L 


209 


had  not  observed  this  precaution  he  would  have  been 
unable  to  bring  him  to  reason. 

Meanwhile  Don  Quixote  worked  upon  a farm 
laborer,  a neighbor  of  his,  an  honest  man  (if  indeed 
that  title  can  be  given  to  him  who  is  poor),  but  with 
very  little  wit  in  his  pate.  In  a word,  he  so  talked 
him  over,  and  with  such  persuasions  and  promises, 
that  the  poor  clown  made  up  his  mind  to  sally  forth 
with  him  and  serve  him  as  esquire.  Don  Quixote, 
among  other  things,  told  him  he  ought  to  be  ready  to 
go  with  him  gladly,  because  any  moment  an  adventure 
might  occur  that  might  win  an  island  in  the  twinkling 
of  an  eye  and  leave  him  governor  of  it.  On  these 
and  the  like  promises  Sancho  Panza  (for  so  the  laborer 
was  called)  left  wife  and  children,  and  engaged  him- 
self as  esquire  to  his  neighbor.  Don  Quixote  next 
set  about  getting  some  money ; and  selling  one  thing 
and  pawning  another,  and  making  a bad  bargain  in 
every  case,  he  got  together  a fair  sum.  He  provided 
himself  with  a buckler,  which  he  begged  as  a loan 
from  a friend,  and,  restoring  his  battered  helmet  as 
best  he  could,  he  warned  his  squire  Sancho  of  the 
day  and  hour  he  meant  to  set  out,  that  he  might 
provide  himself  with  what  he  thought  most  needful. 
Above  all,  he  charged  him  to  take  alforjas  * with  him. 
The  other  said  he  would,  and  that  he  meant  to  take 
also  a very  good  ass  he  had,  as  he  was  not  much  given 
to  going  on  foot.  About  the  ass,  Don  Quixote  hesi- 

^ Alforjas  — a sort  of  double  wallet  serving  for  saddle-bags,  but  more 
frequently  carried  slung  across  the  shoulder. 


210 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


tated  a little,  trying  whether  he  could  call  to  mind 
any  knight-errant  taking  with  him  an  esquire  mounted 
on  ass-back,  but  no  instance  occurred  to  his  memory. 
For  all  that,  however,  he  determined  to  take  him, 
intending  to  furnish  him  with  a more  honorable  mount 
when  a chance  of  it  presented  itself,  by  appropriating 
the  horse  of  the  first  discourteous  knight  he  encoun- 
tered. Himself  he  provided  with  shirts  and  such 
other  things  as  he  could,  according  to  the  advice  the 
host  had  given  him  ; all  which  being  settled  and  done, 
without  taking  leave,  Sancho  Panza  of  his  wife  and 
children,  or  Don  Quixote  of  his  housekeeper  and 
niece,  they  sallied  forth  unseen  by  anybody  from  the 
village  one  night,  and  made  such  good  way  in  the 
course  of  it  that  by  daylight  they  held  themselves  safe 
from  discovery,  even  should  search  be  made  for  them. 

Sancho  rode  on  his  ass  like  a patriarch  with  his 
alforjas  and  bota,'  and  longing  to  see  himself  soon 
governor  of  the  island  his  master  had  promised  him. 
Don  Quixote  decided  upon  taking  the  same  route  and 
road  he  had  taken  on  his  first  journey,  that  over  the 
Campo  de  Montiel,  which  he  travelled  with  less  dis- 
comfort than  on  the  last  occasion,  for,  as  it  was  early 
morning  and  the  rays  of  the  sun  fell  on  them  obliquely, 
the  heat  did  not  distress  them. 

And  now  said  Sancho  Panza  to  his  master,  Your 
worship  will  take  care,  Senor  Knight-errant,  not  to 


* The  hota  is  the  leathern  wine-bag  which  is  as  much  a part  of  the 
Spanish  wayfarer’s  paraphernalia  as  the  alforjas.  It  cannot,  of  course,  be 
properly  translated  “bottle.” 


CHAPTER  VIL 


21 1 


forget  about  the  island  you  have  promised  me,  for  be 
it  ever  so  big  I’ll  be  equal  to  governing  it.” 

To  which  Don  Quixote  replied,  “ Thou  must  know, 
friend  Sancho  Panza,  that  it  was  a practice  very  much 
in  vogue  with  the  knights-errant  of  old  to  make  their 
squires  governors  of  the  islands  or  kingdoms  they  won,* 
and  I am  determined  that  there  shall  be  no  failure  on 
my  part  in  so  liberal  a custom ; on  the  contrary,  I 
mean  to  improve  upon  it,  for  they  sometimes,  and 
perhaps  most  frequently,  waited  until  their  squires 
were  old,  and  then  when  they  had  had  enough  of  ser- 
vice and  hard  days  and  worse  nights,  they  gave  them 
some  title  or  other,  of  count,  or  at  the  most  marquis, 
of  some  valley  or  province  more  or  less ; but  if  thou 
livest  and  I live,  it  may  well  be  that  before  six  days 
are  over,  I may  have  won  some  kingdom  that  has 
others  dependent  upon  it,  which  will  be  just  the  thing 
to  enable  thee  to  be  crowned  king  of  one  of  them. 
Nor  needst  thou  count  this  wonderful,  for  things  and 
chances  fall  to  the  lot  of  such  knights  in  ways  so  un- 
exampled and  unexpected  that  I might  easily  give  thee 
even  more  than  I promise  thee.” 

“ In  that  case,”  said  Sancho  Panza,  “ if  I should 
become  a king  by  one  of  those  miracles  your  worship 
speaks  of,  even  Juana  Gutierrez,  my  old  woman,^ 
would  come  to  be  queen  and  my  children  infantes.” 

^ Amadis,  for  instance,  made  his  squire  Gandalin  governor  of  the  Insula 
Firme. 

2 mz  oislo,  a sort  of  pet-name  for  a wife  in  old  Spanish  among  the  lower 
orders: 

“ Acuerda  de  su  oislo 
Mirando  en  pobre  casa.” 


212 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


“Well,  who  doubts  it?”  said  Don  Quixote. 

“ I doubt  it,”  replied  Sancho  Panza,  “ because  for 
my  part  I am  persuaded  that  though  God  should 
shower  down  kingdoms  upon  earth,  not  one  of  them 
would  fit  the  head  of  Mari  Gutierrez.  Let  me  tell 
you,  senor,  she  is  not  worth  two  maravedis  for  a queen  ; 
countess  will  fit  her  better,  and  that  only  with  God’s 
help.” 

“ Leave  it  to  God,  Sancho,”  returned  Don  Quixote, 
“ for  he  will  give  her  what  suits  her  best ; but  do  not 
undervalue  thyself  so  much  as  to  come  to  be  content 
with  any  thing  less  than  being  governor  of  a province.” 

“ I will  not,  seiior,”  answered  Sancho,  “ especially 
as  I have  a man  of  such  quality  for  a master  in  your 
worship,  who  will  be  able  to  give  me  all  that  will  be 
suitable  for  me  and  that  I can  bear.” 


CHAPTER  Vin. 


213 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

OF  THE  GOOD  FORTUNE  WHICH  THE  VALIANT  DON 
QUIXOTE  HAD  IN  THE  TERRIBLE  AND  UNDREAMT-OF 
ADVENTURE  OF  THE  WINDMILLS,  WITH  OTHER  OCCUR- 
RENCES WORTHY  TO  BE  FITLY  RECORDED. 

At  this  point  they  came  in  sight  of  thirty  or  forty 
windmills  that  there  are  on  that  plain,'  and  as  soon  as 
Don  Quixote  saw  them  he  said  to  his  squire,  “ Fortune 
is  arranging  matters  for  us  better  than  we  could  have 
shaped  our  desires  ourselves,  for  look  there,  friend 
Sancho  Panza,  where  thirty  or  more  monstrous  giants 
present  themselves,  all  of  whom  I mean  to  engage  in 
battle  and  slay,  and  with  whose  spoils  we  shall  begift 
to  make  our  fortunes ; for  this  is  righteous  warfare, 
and  it  is  God’s  good  service  to  sweep  so  evil  a breed 
from  off  the  face  of  the  earth.” 

What  giants  ? ” said  Sancho  Panza. 

‘‘Those  thou  seest  there,”  answered  his  master, 
“ with  the  long  arms,  and  some  have  them  nearly  two 
leagues  long.” 


* These  famous  windmills  had  not  been  very  long  set  up,  and  owed  their 
existence  to  the  failure  of  water-power  in  the  Zancara,  an  affluent  of  the 
Guadiana,  about  thirty  years  before  Don  Qjiixote  was  written.  They  are 
scattered  over  the  plain  between  Alcazar  de  S.  Juan  and  Villaharta.  (V. 
map.) 


214 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


“ Look,  your  worship,”  said  Sancho  ; what  we  see 
there  are  not  giants  but  windmills,  and  what  seem  to 
be  their  arms  are  the  sails  that  turned  by  the  wind 
make  the  millstone  go.” 

“ It  is  easy  to  see,”  replied  Don  Quixote,  “ that 
thou  art  not  used  to  this  business  of  adventures ; those 
are  giants ; and  if  thou  art  afraid,  away  with  thee  out 
of  this  and  betake  thyself  to  prayer  while  I engage 
them  in  fierce  and  unequal  combat.” 

So  saying,  he  gave  the  spur  to  his  steed  Rocinante, 
heedless  of  the  cries  his  squire  Sancho  sent  after  him, 
warning  him  that  most  certainly  they  were  windmills 
and  not  giants  he  was  going  to  attack.  He,  however, 
was  so  positive  they  were  giants  that  he  neither  heard 
the  cries  of  Sancho,  nor  perceived,  near  as  he  was, 
what  they  were,  but  made  at  them  shouting,  ‘‘  Fly  not, 
cowards  and  vile  beings,  for  it  is  a single  knight  that 
attacks  you.” 

' A slight  breeze  at  this  moment  sprang  up,  and  the 
great  sails  began  to  move,  seeing  which  Don  Quixote 
exclaimed,  ‘‘  Though  ye  flourish  more  arms  than  the 
giant  Briareus,  ye  have  to  reckon  with  me.” 

So  saying,  and  commending  himself  with  all  his 
heart  to  his  lady  Dulcinea,  imploring  her  to  support 
him  in  such  a peril,  with  lance  in  rest  and  covered  by 
his  buckler,  he  charged  at  Rocinante’s  fullest  gallop 
and  fell  upon  the  first  mill  that  stood  in  front  of  him ; 
but  as  he  drove  his  lance-point  into  the  sail  the  wind 
whirled  it  round  with  such  force  that  it  shivered  the 
lance  to  pieces,  sweeping  with  it  horse  and  rider,  who 


CHAPTER  VIII, 


215 


went  rolling  over  on  the  plain,  in  a sorry  condition. 
Sancho  hastened  to  his  assistance  as  fast  as  his  ass 
could  go,  and  when  he  came  up  found  him  unable  to 
move,  with  such  a shock  had  Rocinante  fallen  with 
him. 

“God  bless  me!”  said  Sancho,  “did  I not  tell 
your  worship  to  mind  what  you  were  about,  for  they 
were  only  windmills?  and  no  one  could  have  made 
any  mistake  about  it  but  one  who  had  something  of 
the  same  kind  in  his  head.” 

“ Hush,  friend  Sancho,”  replied  Don  Quixote,  “ the 
fortunes  of  war  more  than  any  other  are  liable  to  fre- 
(juent  fluctuations ; and  moreover  I think,  and  it  is 
the  truth,  that  that  same  sage  Friston  who  carried  off 
my  study  and  books,  has  turned  these  giants  into  mills 
in  order  to  rob  me  of  the  glory  of  vanquishing  them, 
such  is  the  enmity  he  bears  me ; but  in  the  end  his 
wicked  arts  will  avail  but  little  against  my  good 
sword.” 

“ God  order  it  as  he  may,”  said  Sancho  Panza,  and 
helping  him  to  rise  got  him  up  again  on  Rocinante, 
whose  shoulder  was  half  out ; and  then,  discussing 
the  late  adventure,  they  followed  the  road  to  Puerto 
Lapice,  for  there,  said  Don  Quixote,  they  could  not 
fail  to  find  adventures  in  abundance  and  variety,  as  it 
was  a great  thoroughfare.'  For  all  that,  he  was  much 
grieved  at  the  loss  of  his  lance,  and  saying  so  to  his 
squire,  he  added,  “ I remember  having  read  how  a 


* Being  a stage  on  the  great  high  road  from  Madrid  to  Seville. 


2i6 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


Spanish  knight,  Diego  Perez  de  Vargas  by  name,  hav- 
ing broken  his  sword  in  battle,  tore  from  an  oak  a 
ponderous  bough  or  branch,  and  with  it  did  such 
things  that  day,  and  pounded  so  many  Moors,  that  he 
got  the  surname  of  Machuca,*  and  he  and  his  de- 
scendants from  that  day  forth  were  called  Vargas  y 
Machuca.  I mention  this  because  from  the  first  oak  ^ 
I see  I mean  to  rend  such  another  branch,  large  and 
stout  like  that,  with  which  I am  determined  and  re- 
solved to  do  such  deeds  that  thou  mayest  deem  thy- 
self very  fortunate  in  being  found  worthy  to  come  and 
see  them,  and  be  an  eye-witness  of  things  that  will 
with  difficulty  be  believed.” 

“ Be  that  as  God  will,”  said  Sancho,  “ I believe  it 
all  as  your  worship  says  it ; but  straighten  yourself  a 
little,  for  you  seem  all  on  one  side,  maybe  from  the 
shaking  of  the  fall.” 

“That  is  the  truth,”  said  Don  Quixote,  “ and  if  I 
make  no  complaint  of  the  pain  it  is  because  knights- 
errant  are  not  permitted  to  complain  of  any  wound, 
even  though  their  bowels  be  coming  out  through  it.” 

“If  so,”  said  Sancho,  “ I have  nothing  to  say ; but 
God  knows  I would  rather  yOur  worship  complained 
when  any  thing  ailed  you.  For  my  part,  I confess  I 


* From  machucar  ox  machacar,'^  X.0  pound.”  The  feat  referred  toby 
Don  Quixote  was  performed  at  the  siege  of  Jerez  under  Alfonso  X.  in  1264, 
and  is  the  subject  of  a spirited  ballad  which  Lockhart  has  treated  with  even 
more  than  his  usual  freedom. 

2 In  the  ballad  it  is  an  olive  tree,  but  the  olive  does  not  flourish  in  La 
Mancha,  so  Don  Quixote  substitutes  oak,  enchta  or  roble,  the  former,  the 
evergreen,  being  rather  the  more  common  in  Spain. 


f-JBRABY 


CHAPTER  VIII. 


217 


must  complain  however  small  the  ache  may  be  ; unless 
indeed  this  rule  about  not  complaining  extends  to  the 
squires  of  knights-errant  also.” 

Don  Quixote  could  not  help  laughing  at  his  squire’s 
simplicity,  and  he  assured  him  he  might  complain 
whenever  and  however  he  chose,  just  as  he  liked,  for, 
so  far,  he  had  never  read  of  any  thing  to  the  contrary 
in  the  order  of  knighthood. 

Sancho  bade  him  remember  it  was  dinner-time,  to 
which  his  master  answered  that  he  wanted  nothing 
himself  just  then,  but  that  he  might  eat  when  he  had 
a mind.  With  this  permission  Sancho  settled  himself 
as  comfortably  as  he  could  on  his  beast,  and  taking 
out  of  the  alforjas  what  he  had  stowed  away  in  them, 
he  jogged  along  behind  his  master  munching  deliber- 
ately, and  from  time  to  time  taking  a pull  at  the  bota 
with  a relish  that  tlie  thirstiest  tapster  in  Malaga  might 
have  envied ; and  while  he  went  on  in  this  way,  gulp- 
ing down  draught  after  draught,  he  never  gave  a 
thought  to  any  of  the  promises  his  master  had  made 
him,  nor  did  he  rate  it  as  hardship  but  rather  as  rec- 
reation going  in  quest  of  adventures,  however  danger- 
ous they  might  be.  Finally  they  passed  the  night 
among  some  trees,  from  one  of  which  Don  Quixote 
plucked  a dry  branch  to  serve  him  after  a fashion  as 
a lance,  and  fixed  on  it  the  head  he  had  removed 
from  the  broken  one.  All  that  night  Don  Quixote 
lay  awake  thinking  of  his  lady  Dulcinea,  in  order  to 
conform  to  what  he  had  read  in  his  books,  how  many 
a night  in  the  forests  and  deserts  knights  used  to  lie 


2i8 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


sleepless  supported  by  the  memory  of  their  mistresses. 
Not  so  did  Sancho  Panza  spend  it,  for  having  his 
stomach  full  of  something  stronger  than  chiccory  water 
he  made  but  one  sleep  of  it,  and,  if  his  master  had 
not  called  him,  neither  the  rays  of  the  sun  beating  on 
his  face  nor  all  the  cheery  notes  of  the  birds  welcoming 
the  approach  of  day  would  have  had  power  to  waken 
him.  On  getting  up  he  tried  the  bota  and  found 
it  somewhat  less  full  than  the  night  before,  which 
grieved  his  heart  because  they  did  not  seem  to  be 
on  the  way  to  remedy  the  deficiency  readily.  Don 
Quixote  did  not  care  to  break  his  fast,  for,  as  has  been 
already  said,  he  confined  himself  to  savory  recollec- 
tions for  nourishment. 

They  returned  to  the  road  they  had  set  out  with, 
leading  to  Puerto  Lapice,  and  at  three  in  the  after- 
noon they  came  in  sight  of  it.  Here,  brother  San- 
cho Panza,”  said  Don  Quixote  when  he  saw  it,  “ we 
may  plunge  our  hands  up  to  the  elbows  in  what  they 
call  adventures ; but  observe,  even  shouldst  thou  see 
me  in  the  greatest  danger  in  the  world,  thou  must  not 
put  a hand  to  thy  sword  in  my  defence,  unless  indeed 
thou  perceivest  that  those  who  assail  me  are  rabble 
or  base  folk ; for  in  that  case  thou  mayest  very  prop- 
erly aid  me  ; but  if  they  be  knights  it  is  on  no  account 
permitted  or  allowed  thee  by  the  laws  of  knighthood 
to  help  me  until  thou  hast  been  dubbed  a knight.” 

“ Most  certainly,  senor,”  replied  Sancho,  “ your 
worship  shall  be  fully  obeyed  in  this  matter ; all  the 
more  as  of  myself  I am  peaceful  and  no  friend  to 


CHAPTER  Viri. 


219 


mixing  in  strife  and  quarrels  : it  is  true  that  as  regards 
the  defence  of  my  own  person  I shall  not  give  much 
heed  to  those  laws,  for  laws  human  and  divine  allow 
each  one  to  defend  himself  against  any  assailant 
whatever.” 

“That  I grant,”  said  Don  Quixote,  “but  in  this 
matter  of  aiding  me  against  knights  thou  must  put 
a restraint  upon  thy  natural  impetuosity.” 

“ I will  do  so,  I promise  you,”  answered  Sancho, 
“ and  I will  keep  this  precept  as  carefully  as  Sunday.” 

While  they  were  thus  talking  there  appeared  on  the 
road  two  friars  of  the  order  of  St.  Benedict,  mounted 
on  two  dromedaries,  for  not  less  tall  were  the  two 
mules  they  rode  on.  They  wore  travelling  spectacles 
and  carried  sunshades ; and  behind  them  came  a 
coach  attended  by  four  or  five  persons  on  horseback 
and  two  muleteers  on  foot.  In  the  coach  there  was, 
as  afterwards  appeared,  a Biscay  lady  on  her  way  to 
Seville,  where  her  husband  was  about  to  take  passage 
for  the  Indies  with  an  appointment  of  high  honor. 
The  friars,  though  going  the  same  road,  were  not 
in  her  company ; but  the  moment  Don  Quixote  per- 
ceived them  he  said  to  his  squire,  “ Either  I am  mis- 
taken, or  this  is  going  to  be  the  most  famous  adventure 
that  has  ever  been  seen,  for  those  black  bodies  we  see 
there  must  be,  and  doubtless  are,  magicians  who  are 
carrying  off  some  stolen  princess  in  that  coach,  and 
with  all  my  might  I must  undo  this  wrong.” 

“ This  will  be  worse  than  the  windmills,”  said  San- 
cho. “ Look,  senor ; those  are  friars  of  St.  Benedict, 


220 


DOJV  QUIXOTE. 


and  the  coach  plainly  belongs  to  some  travellers : 
mind,  I tell  you  to  mind  well  what  you  are  about  and 
don’t  let  the  devil  mislead  you.” 

“ I have  told  thee  already,  Sancho,”  replied  Don 
Quixote,  “ that  on  the  subject  of  adventures  thou 
knowest  little.  What  I say  is  the  truth,  as  thou  shalt 
see  presently.” 

So  saying,  he  advanced  and  posted  himself  in  the 
middle  of  the  road  along  which  the  friars  were  coming, 
and  as  soon  as  he  thought  they  had  come  near  enough 
to  hear  what  he  said,  he  cried  aloud,  “ Devilish  and 
unnatural  beings,  release  instantly  the  high-born  prin- 
cesses whom  you  are  carrying  off  by  force  in  this 
coach,  else  prepare  to  meet  a speedy  death  as  the 
just  punishment  of  your  evil  deeds.” 

The  friars  drew  rein  and  stood  wondering  at  the 
appearance  of  Don  Quixote  as  well  as  at  his  words, 
to  which  they  replied,  “ Senor  Caballero,  we  are  not 
devilish  or  unnatural,  but  two  brothers  of  St.  Bene- 
dict following  our  road,  nor  do  we  know  whether  or 
not  there  are  any  captive  princesses  coming  in  this 
coach.” 

“ No  soft  words  with  me,  for  I know  you,  lying 
rabble,”  said  Don  Quixote,  and  without  waiting  for  a 
reply  he  spurred  Rocinante  and  with  levelled  lance 
charged  the  first  friar  with  such  fury  and  determina- 
tion, that,  if  the  friar  had  not  flung  himself  off  the 
mule,  he  would  have  brought  him  to  the  ground 
against  his  will,  and  sore  wounded,  if  not  killed  out- 
right. The  second  brother,  seeing  how  his  comrade 


CHAPTER  VI  11. 


221 


was  treated,  drove  his  heels  into  his  castle  of  a 
mule  and  made  off  across  the  country  faster  than 
the  wind. 

Sancho  Panza,  when  he  saw  the  friar  on  the  ground, 
dismounting  briskly  from  his  ass,  rushed  towards  him 
and  began  to  strip  off  his  gown.  At  that  instant  the 
friars’  muleteers  came  up  and  asked  what  he  was 
stripping  him  for.  Sancho  answered  them  that  this 
fell  to  him  lawfully  as  spoil  of  the  battle  which  his 
lord  Don  Quixote  had  won.  The  muleteers,  who  had 
no  idea  of  a joke  and  did  not  understand  all  this 
about  battles  and  spoils,  seeing  that  Don  Quixote  was 
some  distance  off  talking  to  the  travellers  in  the  coach, 
fell  upon  Sancho,  knocked  him  down,  and  leaving 
hardly  a hair  in  his  beard,  belabored  him  with  kicks 
and  left  him  stretched  breathless  and  senseless  on  the 
ground ; and  without  any  more  delay  helped  the  friar 
to  mount,  who,  trembling,  terrified,  and  pale,  as  soon 
as  he  found  himself  in  the  saddle,  spurred  after  his 
companion,  who  was  standing  at  a distance  looking 
on,  watching  the  result  of  the  onslaught ; then,  not 
caring  to  wait  for  the  end  of  the  affair  just  begun,  they 
pursued  their  journey  making  more  crosses  than  if 
they  had  tlie  devil  after  them. 

Don  Quixote  was,  as  has  been  said,  speaking  to  the 
lady  in  the  coach  : “ Your  beauty,  lady  mine,”  said 
he,  ‘‘  may  now  dispose  of  your  person  as  may  be  most 
in  accordance  with  your  pleasure,  for  the  pride  of 
your  ravishers  lies  prostrate  on  the  ground  through 
this  strong  arm  of  mine ; and  lest  you  should  be 


222 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


pining  to  know  the  name  of  your  deliverer,  know  that 
I am  called  Don  Quixote  of  La  Mancha,  knight-errant 
and  adventurer,  and  captive  to  the  peerless  and  beau- 
tiful lady  Dulcinea  del  Toboso  ; and  in  return  for  the 
service  you  have  received  of  me  I ask  no  more  than 
that  you  should  return  to  El  Toboso,  and  on  my  be- 
half present  yourself  before  that  lady  and  tell  her  what 
I have  done  to  set  you  free.” 

One  of  the  squires  in  attendance  upon  the  coach, 
a Biscayan,  was  listening  to  all  Don  Quixote  was  say- 
ing, and,  perceiving  that  he  would  not  allow  the  coach 
to  go  on,  but  was  saying  it  must  return  at  once  to 
El  Toboso,  he  made  at  him,  and  seizing  his  lance 
addressed  him  in  bad  Castilian  and  worse  Biscayan  ‘ 
after  this  fashion,  “ Begone,  caballero,  and  ill  go  with 
thee ; by  the  God  that  made  me,  unless  thou  quittest 
coach,  slayest  thee  as  art  here  a Biscayan.” 

Don  Quixote  understood  him  quite  well,  and  an- 
swered him  very  quietly,  “ If  thou  wert  a knight,  as 
thou  art  none,  I should  have  already  chastised  thy 
folly  and  rashness,  miserable  creature.”  To  which 
the  Biscayan  returned,  “ I no  gentleman  ! ^ — I swear 
to  God  thou  best  as  I am  Christian : if  thou  droppest 
lance  and  drawest  sword,  soon  shalt  thou  see  thou  art 


* In  the  humorous  tract  The  Book  of  all  Things,  and  many  more, 
Quevedo  mentions  as  the  chief  characteristic  of  the  Biscayan  dialect  that  it 
changes  the  first  person  of  the  verb  into  the  second.  This  may  be  observed 
in  the  specimen  given  here:  another  example  of  Biscayan  will  be  found  in 
Cervantes’  interlude  of  the  Viscauio  Fingido. 

2 Caballero  means  “ gentleman  ” as  well  as  knight,  and  the  peppery 
Biscayan  assumes  that  Don  Quixote  has  used  the  word  in  the  former  sense. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 


223 


carrying  water  to  the  cat : ' Biscayan  on  land,  hidalgo 
at  sea,  hidalgo  at  the  devil,  and  look,  if  thou  sayest 
otherwise  thou  liest.” 

a < “You  will  see  presently,”  said  Agrajes,’  ” ^ replied 
Don  Quixote  ; and  throwing  his  lance  on  the  ground 
he  drew  his  sword,  braced  his  buckler  on  his  arm,  and 
attacked  the  Biscayan,  bent  upon  taking  his  life. 

The  Biscayan,  when  he  saw  him  coming  on,  though 
he  wished  to  dismount  from  his  mule,  in  which,  being 
one  of  those  sorry  ones  let  out  for  hire,  he  had  no 
confidence,  had  no  choice  but  to  draw  his  sword ; it 
was  lucky  for  him,  however,  that  he  was  near  the 
coach,  from  which  he  was  able  to  snatch  a cushion 
that  served  him  for  a shield ; and  then  they  went  at 
one  another  as  if  they  had  been  two  mortal  enemies. 
The  others  strove  to  make  peace  between  them,  but 
could  not,  for  the  Biscayan  declared  in  his  disjointed 
phrase  that  if  they  did  not  let  him  finish  his  battle  he 
would  kill  his  mistress  and  every  one  that  strove  to 
prevent  him.  The  lady  in  the  coach,  amazed  and 
terrified  at  what  she  saw,  ordered  the  coachman  to 
draw  aside  a little,  and  set  herself  to  watch  this  severe 
struggle,  in  the  course  of  which  the  Biscayan  smote 

^ Quien  ha  de  llevar  el  gato  al  agua  ? (Prov.  102.)  “ Who  will  carry 

the  cat  to  the  water  ? ” is  a proverbial  way  of  indicating  an  apparently  insuper- 
able difficulty.  Between  rage  and  ignorance  the  Biscayan,  it  will  be  seen, 
inverts  the  phrase. 

^ Agrajes  was  the  cousin  and  companion  of  Amadis  of  Gaul.  The  phrase 
quoted  above  (Prov.  4)  became  a popular  one,  and  is  introduced  as  such 
among  others  of  the  same  sort  by  Quevedo  in  the  vision  of  the  Visita  de  los 
Chistes.  It  is  hard  to  say  why  it  should  h ive  been  fixed  on  Agrajes,  who 
does  not  seem  to  use  it  as  often  as  others,  Amadis  himself  for  instance. 


224 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


Don  Quixote  a mighty  stroke  on  the  shoulder  over  the 
top  of  his  buckler,  which,  given  to  one  without  armor, 
would  have  cleft  him  to  the  waist.  Don  Quixote, 
feeling  the  weight  of  this  prodigious  blow,  cried  aloud, 
saying,  “ O lady  of  my  soul,  Dulcinea,  flower  of  beauty, 
come  to  the  aid  of  this  your  knight,  who,  in  fulfilling 
his  obligations  to  your  beauty,  finds  himself  in  this  ex- 
treme peril.”  To  say  this,  to  lift  his  sword,  to  shelter 
himself  well  behind  his  buckler,  and  to  assail  the  Bis- 
cayan was  the  work  of  an  instant,  determined  as  he 
was  to  venture  all  upon  a single  blow.  The  Biscayan, 
seeing  him  come  on  in  this  way,  was  convinced  of  his 
courage  by  his  spirited  bearing,  and  resolved  to  follow 
his  example,  so  he  waited  for  him  keeping  well  under 
cover  of  his  cushion,  being  unable  to  execute  any  sort 
of  manoeuvre  with  his  mule,  which,  dead  tired  and 
never  meant  for  this  kind  of  game,  could  not  stir  a 
step. 

On,  then,  as  aforesaid,  came  Don  Quixote  against 
the  wary  Biscayan,  with  uplifted  sword  and  a firm 
intention  of  splitting  him  in  half,  while  on  his  side  the 
Biscayan  waited  for  him  sword  in  hand,  and  under 
the  protection  of  his  cushion ; and  all  present  stood 
trembling,  waiting  in  suspense  the  result  of  blows  such 
as  threatened  to  fall,  and  the  lady  in  the  coach  and 
the  rest  of  her  following  were  making  a thousand  vows 
and  offerings  to  all  the  images  and  shrines  of  Spain, 
that  God  might  deliver  her  squire  and  all  of  them 
from  this  great  peril  in  which  they  found  themselves. 
But  it  spoils  all,  that  at  this  point  and  crisis  the  author 


CHAPTER  VIII. 


225 


of  the  history  leaves  this  battle  impending,^  giving  as 
excuse  that  he  could  find  nothing  more  written  about 
these  achievements  of  Don  Quixote  than  what  has 
been  already  set  forth.  It  is  true  the  second  author 
of  this  work  was  unwilling  to  believe  that  a history  so 
curious  could  have  been  allowed  to  fall  under  the  sen- 
tence of  oblivion,  or  that  the  wits  of  La  Mancha  could 
have  been  so  undiscerning  as  not  to  preserve  in  their 
archives  or  registries  some  documents  referring  to  this 
famous  knight ; and  this  being  his  persuasion,  he  did 
not  despair  of  finding  the  conclusion  of  this  pleasant 
history,  which,  heaven  favoring  him,  he  did  find  in  a 
way  that  shall  be  related  in  the  Second  Part.^ 


* The  abrupt  suspension  of  the  narrative  and  the  reason  assigned  are  in 
imitation  of  devices  of  the  chivalry-romance  writers.  Montalvo,  for  instance, 
breaks  off  in  the  ninety-eighth  chapter  of  Esplandia7i,  and  in  the  next  gives 
an  account  of  the  discovery  of  the  sequel,  very  much  as  Cervantes  has  done 
here  and  in  the  next  chapter. 

2 Cervantes  divided  his  first  volume  of  Don  Quixote  into  four  parts, 
possibly  in  imitation  of  the  four  books  of  the  Amadis  of  Montalvo;  but  the 
chapters  were  numbered  without  regard  to  this  division,  which  he  also 
ignored  in  1615,  when  he  called  his  new  volume  “ Second  ” instead  of  “ Fifth  ” 
Part. 


226 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

IN  WHICH  IS  CONCLUDED  AND  FINISHED  THE  TERRIFIC 
BATTLE  BETWEEN  THE  GALLANT  BISCAYAN  AND  THE 
VALIANT  MANCHEGAN. 

In  the  First  Part  of  this  history  we  left  the  valiant 
Biscayan  and  the  renowned  Don  Quixote  with  drawn 
swords  uplifted,  ready  to  deliver  two  such  furious 
slashing  blows  that  if  they  had  fallen  full  and  fair  they 
would  at  least  have  split  and  cleft  them  asunder  from 
top  to  toe  and  laid  them  open  like  a pomegranate ; 
and  at  this  so  critical  point  the  delightful  history  came 
to  a stop  and  stood  cut  short  without  any  intimation 
from  the  author  where  whaf  was  missing  was  to  be 
found.  , 

This  distressed  me  greatly,  because  the  pleasure 
derived  from  having  read  such  a small  portion  turned 
to  vexation  at  the  thought  of  the  poor  chance  that 
presented  itself  of  finding  the  large  part  that,  so  it 
seemed  to  me,  was  missing  of  such  an  interesting  tale. 
It  appeared  to  me  to  be  a thing  impossible  and  con- 
trary to  all  precedent  that  so  good  a knight  should 
have  been  without  some  sage  to  undertake  the  task  of 
writing  his  marvellous  achievements  ; a thing  that  was 
never  wanting  to  any  of  those  knights-errant  who,  they 


CHAPTER  IX. 


227 


say,  went  after  adventures ; for  every  one  of  them  had 
one  or  two  sages  as  if  made  on  purpose,  who  not  only 
recorded  their  deeds  but  described  their  most  trifling 
thoughts  and  follies,  however  secret  they  might  be ; 
and  such  a good  knight  could  not  have  been  so  un- 
fortunate as  not  to  have  what  Platir  and  others  like  him 
had  in  abundance.  And  so  I could  not  bring  myself 
to  believe  that  such  a gallant  tale  had  been  left  maimed 
and  mutilated,  and  I laid  the  blame  on  Time,  the 
devourer  and  destroyer  of  all  things,  that  had  either 
concealed  or  consumed  it. 

On  the  other  hand,  it  struck  me  that,  inasmuch  as 
among  his  books  there  had  been  found  such  modern 
ones  as  ‘‘The  Enlightenment  of  Jealousy”  and  the 
“ Nymphs  and  Shepherds  of  Henares,”  his  story  must 
likewise  be  modern,  and  that  though  it  might  not  be 
written,  it  might  exist  in  the  memory  of  the  people 
of  his  village  and  of  those  in  the  neighborhood. 
This  reflection  kept  me  perplexed  and  longing  to 
know  really  and  truly  the  whole  life  and  wondrous 
deeds  of  our  famous  Spaniard,  Don  Quixote  of  La 
Mancha,  light  and  mirror  of  Manchegan  chivalry,  and 
the  first  that  in  our  age  and  in  these  so  evil  days 
devoted  himself  to  the  labor  and  exercise  of  the  arms 
of  knight-errantry,  righting  wrongs,  succoring  widows, 
and  protecting  damsels  of  that  sort  that  used  to  ride 
about,  whip  in  hand,*  on  their  palfreys,  with  all  their 


* Instead  of  azotes  (whips)  Clemencin  suggests  azores  (hawks),  and 
refers  to  chapter  xxx.  Part  II.,  where  a hawk  in  hand  is  especially  mentioned 
as  the  usual  accompaniment  of  a noble  lady  on  horseback. 


228 


nOJV  QUIXOTE. 


virginity  about  them,  from  mountain  to  mountain  and 
valley  to  valley  — for,  if  it  were  not  for  some  ruffian, 
or  boor  with  a hood  and  hatchet,  or  monstrous  giant, 
that  forced  them,  there  were  in  days  of  yore  damsels 
that  at  the  end  of  eighty  years,  in  all  which  time  they 
had  never  slept  a day  under  a roof,  went  to  their 
graves  as  much  maids  as  the  mothers  that  bore  them. 
I say,  then,  that  in  these  and  other  respects  our  gal- 
lant Don  Quixote  is  worthy  of  everlasting  and  notable 
praise,  nor  should  it  be  withheld  even  from  me  for 
the  labor  and  pains  spent  in  searching  for  the  conclu- 
sion of  this  delightful  history ; though  I know  well 
that  if  Heaven,  chance,  and  good  fortune  had  not 
helped  me,  the  world  would  have  remained  deprived 
of  an  entertainment  and  pleasure  that  for  a couple  of 
hours  or  so  may  well  occupy  him  who  shall  read  it 
attentively.  The  discovery  of  it  occurred  in  this 
way. 

One  day,  as  I was  in  the  Alcana  ‘ of  Toledo,  a boy 
came  up  to  sell  some  pamphlets  and  old  papers  to  a 
silk  mercer,  and,  as  I am  fond  of  reading  even  the 
very  scraps  of  paper  in  the  streets,  led  by  this  natural 
bent  of  mine  I took  up  one  of  the  pamphlets  the  boy 
had  for  sale,  and  saw  that  it  was  in  characters  which 
I recognized  as  Arabic,  and,  as  I was  unable  to  read 
them  though  I could  recognize  them,  I looked  about 
to  see  if  there  were  any  Spanish-speaking  Morisco  at 
hand  to  read  them  for  me ; nor  was  there  any  great 


Alcand,  a market-place  in  Toledo  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  cathedral. 


CHAPTER  IX, 


229 


difficulty  in  finding  such  an  interpreter,  for  even  had 
I sought  one  for  an  older  and  better  language  * I 
should  have  found  him.  In  short,  chance  provided 
me  with  one,  who  when  I told  him  what  I wanted  and 
put  the  book  into  his  hands,  opened  it  in  the  middle 
and  after  reading  a little  in  it  began  to  laugh.  I 
asked  him  what  he  was  laughing  at,  and  he  replied 
that  it  was  at  something  the  book  had  written  in  the 
margin  by  way  of  a note.  I bade  him  tell  it  to  me ; 
and  he  still  laughing  said,  “ In  the  margin,  as  I told 
you,  this  is  written  : ‘ This  Dulcinea  del  Toboso  so 
often  mentioned  in  this  history  had,  they  say,  the  best 
hand  of  any  wo7nan  m all  La  Mancha  for  salting 
pigs:  ” 

When  I heard  Dulcinea  del  Toboso  named,  I was 
struck  with  surprise  and  amazement,  for  it  occurred 
to  me  at  once  that  these  pamphlets  contained  the  his- 
tory of  Don  Quixote.  With  this  idea  I pressed  him 
to  read  the  beginning,  and  doing  so,  turning  the 
Arabic  offhand  into  Castilian,  he  told  me  it  meant. 
History  of  Don  Quixote  of  La  Mancha,  W7'itten  by 
Cid  Ha77iet  Be7iengeliy-  a7i  A7'ab  historia7i:'  It  re- 
quired great  caution  to  hide  the  joy  I felt  when  the 
title  of  the  book  reached  my  ears,  and  snatching  it 
from  the  silk  mercer,  I bought  all  the  papers  and 


^ i.e.  Hebrew. 

2 J.  A.  Conde  suggested  that  Ben  Engeli  — “son  of  the  stag”  — is  the 
Arabic  equivalent  of  the  name  “ Cervantes,”  the  root  of  which  he  assumed 
to  be  ciervo.  Cervantes  may,  of  couise,  have  intended  what  Conde  attrib- 
utes to  him,  but  the  name  in  reality  has  nothing  to  do  with  ciervo,  and 
comes  from  Servando.  ( V.  Introduction,  p.  23,) 


230 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


pamphlets  from  the  boy  for  half  a real ; and  if  he  had 
had  his  wits  about  him  and  had  known  how  eager  1 
was  for  them,  he  might  have  safely  calculated  on 
making  more  than  six  reals  by  the  bargain.  I with- 
drew at  once  with  the  Morisco  into  the  cloister  of  the 
cathedral,  and  begged  him  to  turn  all  these  pamphlets 
that  related  to  Don  Quixote  into  the  Castilian  tongue, 
without  omitting  or  adding  any  thing  to  them,  offering 
him  whatever  payment  he  pleased.  He  was  satisfied 
with  two  arrobas  of  raisins  and  two  bushels  of  wheat, 
and  promised  to  translate  them  faithfully  and  with  all 
despatch ; but  to  make  the  matter  more  easy,  and  not 
to  let  such  a precious  find  out  of  my  hands,  I took 
him  to  my  house,  where  in  little  more  than  a month 
and  a half  he  translated  the  whole  just  as  it  is  set 
down  here. 

In  the  first  pamphlet  the  battle  between  Don  Qui- 
xote and  the  Biscayan  was  drawn  to  the  very  life,  they 
planted  in  the  same  attitude  as  the  history  describes, 
their  swords  raised,  and  the  one  protected  by  his 
buckler,  the  other  by  his  cushion,  and  the  Biscayan’s 
mule  so  true  to  nature  that  it  could  be  seen  to  be  a 
hired  one  a bowshot  off.  The  Biscayan  had  an  in- 
scription under  his  feet  which  said,  “ Don  Sancho  de 
Azpeitia^''  which  no  doubt  must  have  been  his  name  i 
and  at  the  feet  of  Rocinante  was  another  that  said, 
“ Don  Quixote.^'  Rocinante  was  marvellously  por- 
trayed, so  long  and  thin,  so  lank  and  lean,  with  so 
much  backbone  and  so  far  gone  in  consumption,  that 
he  showed  plainly  with  what  judgment  and  propriety 


CHAPTER  IX. 


231 


the  name  of  Rocinante  had  been  bestowed  upon  him. 
Near  him  was  Sancho  Panza  holding  the  halter  of  his 
ass,  at  whose  feet  was  another  label  that  said,  “ Sancho 
Zancas,”  and  according  to  the  picture,  he  must  have 
had  a big  belly,  a short  body,  and  long  shanks,  for 
which  reason,  no  doubt,  the  names  of  Panza  and  Zan- 
cas were  given  him,  for  by  these  two  surnames  the 
history  several  times  calls  him.'  Some  other  trifling 
particulars  might  be  mentioned,  but  they  are  all  of 
slight  importance  and  have  nothing  to  do  with  the 
true  relation  of  the  history ; and  no  history  can  be  bad 
so  long  as  it  is  true. 

If  against  the  present  one  any  objection  be  raised 
on  the  score  of  its  truth,  it  can  only  be  that  its  author 
was  an  Arab,  as  lying  is  a very  common  propensity 
with  those  of  that  nation ; though,  as  they  are  such 
enemies  of  ours,  it  is  conceivable  that  there  were 
omissions  rather  than  additions  made  in  the  course 
of  it.  And  this  is  my  own  opinion ; for,  where  he 
could  and  should  give  freedom  to  his  pen  in  praise 
of  so  worthy  a knight,  he  seems  to  me  deliberately  to 
pass  it  over  in  silence ; which  is  ill  done  and  worse 
contrived,  for  it  is  the  business  and  duty  of  historians 
to  be  exact,  truthful,  and  wholly  free  from  passion, 
and  neither  interest  nor  fear,  hatred  nor  love,  should 
make  them  swerve  from  the  path  of  truth,  whose 


^ Panza  = ” paunch:  ” Ztincas  = “ shanks;  ” but  in  spite  of  what  Cer- 
vantes says,  we  hear  no  more  of  Sancho’s  long  shanks,  for  wnich  the 
reader  will  be  grateful.  It  would  have  been  difficult  to  realize  a long-legged 
Sancho. 


232 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


mother  is  history,’  rival  of  time,  storehouse  of  deeds, 
witness  for  the  past,  example  and  counsel  for  the 
present,  and  warning  for  the  future.  In  this  I know 
will  be  found  all  that  can  be  desired  in  the  pleasantest, 
and  if  it  be  wanting  in  any  good  quality,  I maintain 
it  is  the  fault  of  its  hound  of  an  author  and  not  the 
fault  of  the  subject.  To  be  brief,  its  Second  Part, 
according  to  the  translation,  began  in  this  way : 

With  trenchant  swords  upraised  and  poised  on  high, 
it  seemed  as  though  the  two  valiant  and  wrathful  com- 
batants stood  threatening  heaven,  and  earth,  and  hell, 
with  such  resolution  and  determination  did  they  bear 
themselves.  The  fiery  Biscayan  was  the  first  to  strike 
a blow,  which  was  delivered  with  such  force  and  fury 
that  had  not  the  sword  turned  in  its  course,  that 
single  stroke  would  have  sufficed  to  put  an  end  to 
the  bitter  struggle  and  to  all  the  adventures  of  our 
knight ; but  that  good  fortune  which  reserved  him  for 
greater  things,  turned  aside  the  sword  of  his  adversary, 
so  that,  although  it  smote  him  upon  the  left  shoulder, 
it  did  him  no  more  harm  than  to  strip  all  that  side  of 
its  armor,  carrying  away  a great  part  of  his  helmet 
with  half  of  his  ear,  all  which  with  fearful  ruin  fell  to 
the  ground,  leaving  him  in  a sorry  plight. 

Good  God  ! Who  is  there  that  could  properly 
describe  the  rage  that  filled  the  heart  of  our  Manche- 
gan when  he  saw  himself  dealt  with  in  this  fashion? 


* A curious  instance  of  the  carelessness  with  which  Cervantes  wrote  and 
corrected,  If,  indeed,  he  corrected  at  all : of  course  he  meant  the  opposite  of 
what  he  said  — that  truth  was  the  mother  of  history. 


OfTHt 

,«,vt«siTY  Of  iLtmoft 


CHAPTER  IX. 


233 


All  that  can  be  said  is,  it  was  such  that  he  again 
raised  himself  in  bis  stirrups,  and,  grasping  his  sword 
more  firmly  with  both  hands,  he  came  down  on  the 
Biscayan  with  such  fury,  smiting  him  full  over  the 
cushion  and  over  the  head,  that  — even  so  good  a 
shield  proving  useless  — as  if  a mountain  had  fallen 
on  him,  he  began  to  bleed  from  nose,  mouth,  and 
ears,  reeling  as  if  about  to  fall  backwards  from  his 
mule,  as  no  doubt  he  would  have  done  had  he  not 
flung  his  arms  about  its  neck ; at  the  same  time, 
however,  he  slipped  his  feet  out  of  the  stirrups  and 
then  unclasped  his  arms,  and  the  mule,  taking  fright 
at  the  terrible  blow,  made  off  across  the  plain,  and 
with  a few  plunges  flung  its  master  to  the  ground. 
Don  Quixote  stood  looking  on  very  calmly,  and,  when 
he  saw  him  fall,  leaped  from  his  horse  and  with  great 
briskness  ran  to  him,  and,  presenting  the  point  of  his 
sword  to  his  eyes,  bade  him  surrender,  or  he  would 
cut  his  head  ofT.  The  Biscayan  was  so  bewildered 
that  he  was  unable  to  answer  a word,  and  it  would 
have  gone  hard  with  him,  so  blind  was  Don  Quixote, 
had  not  the  ladies  in  the  coach,  who  had  hitherto 
been  watching  the  combat  in  great  terror,  hastened 
to  where  he  stood  and  implored  him  with  earnest 
entreaties  to  grant  them  the  great  grace  and  favor  of 
sparing  their  squire’s  life ; to  which  Don  Quixote 
replied  with  much  gravity  and  dignity,  “ In  truth,  fair 
ladies,  I am  well  content  to  do  what  ye  ask  of  me ; 
but  it  must  be  on  one  condition  and  understanding, 
which  is  that  this  knight  promise  me  to  go  to  the 


234 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


village  of  El  Toboso,  and  on  my  part  present  himself 
before  the  peerless  lady  Dulcinea,  that  she  deal  with 
him  as  shall  be  most  pleasing  to  her.” 

The  terrified  and  disconsolate  ladies,  without  dis- 
cussing Don  Quixote’s  demand  or  asking  who  Dulcinea 
might  be,  promised  that  their  squire  should  do  all  that 
had  been  commanded  on  his  part. 

“Then,  on  the  faith  of  that  promise,”  said  Don 
Quixote,  “ I shall  do  him  no  further  harm,  though  he 
well  deserves  it  of  me.” 


CHAPTER  X. 


235 


CHAPTER  X. 

OF  THE  PLEASANT  DISCOURSE  THAT  PASSED  BETWEEN 
DON  QUIXOTE  AND  HIS  SQUIRE  SANCHO  PANZA. 

Now  by  this  time  Sancho  had  risen,  rather  the 
worse  for  the  handling  of  the  friars’  muleteers,  and 
stood  watching  the  battle  of  his  master,  Don  Quixote, 
and  praying  to  God  in  his  heart  that  it  might  be  his 
will  to  grant  him  the  victory,  and  that  he  might 
thereby  win  some  island  to  make  him  governor  of, 
as  he  had  promised.  Seeing,  therefore,  that  the  strug- 
gle was  now  over,  and  that  his  master  was  returning 
to  mount  Rocinante,  he  approached  to  hold  the 
stirrup  for  him,  and,  before  he  could  mount,  he  went 
on  his  knees  before  him,  and  taking  his  hand,  kissed 
it  saying,  “ May  it  please  your  worship,  Sehor  Don 
Quixote,  to  give  me  the  government  of  that  island 
which  has  been  won  in  this  hard  fight,  for  be  it  ever 
so  big  I feel  myself  in  sufficient  force  to  be  able  to 
govern  it  as  much  and  as  well  as  any  one  in  the  world 
who  has  ever  governed  islands.” 

To  which  Don  Quixote  replied,  “Thou  must  take 
notice,  brother  Sancho,  that  this  adventure  and  those 
like  it  are  not  adventures  of  islands,  but  of  cross-roads, 
in  which  nothing  is  got  except  a broken  head  or  an 


236 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


ear  the  less  : have  patience,  for  adventures  will  pre- 
sent themselves  from  which  I may  make  you,  not 
only  a governor,  but  something  more.” 

Sancho  gave  him  many  thanks,  and  again  kissing 
his  hand  and  the  skirt  of  his  hauberk,  helped  him  to 
mount  Rocinante,  and  mounting  his  ass  himself,  pro- 
ceeded to  follow  his  master,  who  at  a brisk  pace,  with- 
out taking  leave,  or  saying  any  thing  further  to  the 
ladies  belonging  to  the  coach,  turned  into  a wood 
that  was  hard  by.  Sancho  followed  him  at  his  ass’s 
best  trot,  but  Rocinante  stepped  out  so  that,  seeing 
himself  left  behind,  he  was  forced  to  call  to  his 
master  to  wait  for  him.  Don  Quixote  did  so,  reining 
in  Rocinante  until  his  weary  squire  came  up,  who  on 
reaching  him  said,  “ It  seems  to  me,  sehor,  it  would 
be  prudent  in  us  to  go  and  take  refuge  in  some 
church,  for,  seeing  how  mauled  he  with  whom  you 
fought  has  been  left,  it  will  be  no  wonder  if  they  give 
information  of  the  affair  to  the  Holy  Brotherhood  ' 
and  arrest  us,  and,  faith,  if  they  do,  before  we  come 
out  of  gaol  we  shall  have  to  sweat  for  it.” 

“ Peace,”  said  Don  Quixote ; ‘‘  where  hast  thou 
ever  seen  or  heard  that  a knight-errant  has  been 
arraigned  before  a court  of  justice,  however  many 
homicides  he  may  have  committed?” 

‘H  know  nothing  about  omecils,”^  answered  Sancho, 

^ The  Santa  Hermandad,  a tribunal  established  in  the  thirteenth  century, 
but  revived  in  the  reign  of  Ferdinand  and  Isabella,  with  summary  jurisdiction 
over  offenders  against  life  and  property  on  the  highways  and  outside  of  the 
municipal  boundaries. 

2 Omecillo  or  homccillo  was  an  old  form  of  the  word  homecidio,  but  in 


CHAPTER  X. 


237 


“ nor  in  my  life  have  had  any  thing  to  do  with  one  ; 1 
only  know  that  the  Holy  Brotherhood  looks  after 
those  who  fight  in  the  fields,  and  in  that  other  matter 
I do  not  meddle.” 

“ Then  thou  needst  have  no  uneasiness,  my  friend,” 
said  Don  Quixote,  ‘‘  for  I will  deliver  thee  out  of  the 
hands  of  the  Chaldeans,  much  more  out  of  those  of 
the  Brotherhood.  But  tell  me,  as  thou  livest,  hast 
thou  seen  a more  valiant  knight  than  I in  all  the 
known  world  ; hast  thou  read  in  history  of  any  who 
has  or  had  higher  mettle  in  attack,  more  spirit  in 
maintaining  it,  more  dexterity  in  wounding  or  skill 
in  overthrowing?” 

“ The  truth  is,”  answered  Sancho,  “ that  I have 
never  read  any  history,  for  I can  neither  read  nor 
write,  but  what  I will  venture  to  bet  is  that  a more 
daring  master  than  your  worship  I have  never  served 
in  all  the  days  of  my  life,  and  God  grant  that  this 
daring  be  not  paid  for  where  I have  said ; what  I 
beg  of  your  worship  is  to  dress  your  wound,  for  a 
great  deal  of  blood  flows  from  that  ear,  and  I have 
here  some  lint  and  a little  white  ointment  in  the 
alforjas.” 

“AW  that  might  be  well  dispensed  with,”  said  Don 
Quixote,  “ if  I had  remembered  to  make  a vial  of 
the  balsam  of  Fierabras,* *  for  time  and  medicine  are 
saved  by  one  single  drop.” 

popular  parlance  it  meant  the  fine  imposed  in  default  of  appearance  to  answer 
a charge  of  assault  and  battery. 

* Fierabras,  i.e.  Fier  a.  = “ Arm-strong,”  a giant  in  Nicolas  de 

Piamonte’s  history  of  Charlemagne  and  the  Peers. 


238 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


“What  vial  and  what  balsam  is  that?”  said  Sancho 
Panza. 

“ It  is  a balsam,”  answered  Don  Quixote,  “ the 
receipt  of  which  I have  in  my  memory,  with  which 
one  need  have  no  fear  of  death,  or  dread  dying  of 
any  wound ; and  so  when  I make  it  and  give  it  to 
thee  thou  hast  nothing  to  do  when  in  some  battle 
thou  seest  they  have  cut  me  in  half  through  the 
middle  of  the  body  — as  is  wont  to  happen  frequently 
— but  neatly  and  with  great  nicety,  ere  the  blood 
congeal,  to  place  that  portion  of  the  body  which  shall 
have  fallen  to  the  ground  upon  the  other  half  which 
remains  in  the  saddle,  taking  care  to  fit  it  on  evenly 
and  exactly.  Then  thou  shalt  give  me  to  drink  but 
two  drops  of  the  balsam  I have  mentioned,  and  thou 
shalt  see  me  become  sounder  than  an  apple.” 

“ If  that  be  so,”  said  Panza,  “ I renounce  hence- 
forth the  government  of  the  promised  island,  and 
desire  nothing  more  in  payment  of  my  many  and  faith- 
ful services  than  that  your  worship  give  me  the  receipt 
of  this  supreme  liquor,  for  I am  persuaded  it  will  be 
worth  more  than  two  reals  an  ounce  anywhere,  and  I 
want  no  more  to  pass  the  rest  of  my  life  in  ease  and 
honor ; but  it  remains  to  be  told  if  it  costs  much  to 
make  it.” 

“ With  less  than  three  reals  six  quarts  ^ of  it  may  be 
made,”  said  Don  Quixote. 

“ Sinner  that  I am  ! ” said  Sancho,  “ then  why  does 


* In  the  original,  tres  azui$ibres. 


CHAPTER  X. 


239 


your  worship  put  off  making  it  and  teaching  it  to 
me?” 

“ Peace,  friend,”  answered  Don  Quixote  ; “ greater 
secrets  I mean  to  teach  thee  and  greater  favors  to 
bestow  upon  thee ; and  for  the  present  let  us  see  to 
the  dressing,  for  my  ear  pains  me  more  than  I could 
wish.” 

Sancho  took  out  some  lint  and  ointment  from  the 
alforjas ; but  when  Don  Quixote  came  to  see  his 
helmet  shattered,  he  was  like  to  lose  his  senses,  and 
clapping  his  hand  upon  his  sword  and  raising  his 
eyes  to  heaven,  he  said,  ‘‘  I swear  by  the  Creator  of 
all  things  and  the  four  Gospels  in  their  fullest  extent, 
to  do  as  the  great  Marquis  of  Mantua  did  when  he 
swore  to  avenge  the  death  of  his  nephew  Baldwin 
(and  that  was  not  to  eat  bread  from  a table-cloth, 
nor  embrace  his  wife,  and  other  points  which,  though 
I cannot  now  call  them  to  mind,  I here  grant  as  ex- 
pressed), until  I take  complete  vengeance  upon  him 
who  has  committed  such  an  offence  against  me.” 

Hearing  this,  Sancho  said  to  him,  ^‘Your  worship 
should  bear  in  mind,  Sehor  Don  Quixote,  that  if  the 
knight  has  done  what  was  commanded  him  in  going 
to  present  himself  before  my  lady  Dulcinea  del  Toboso, 
he  will  have  done  all  that  he  was  bound  to  do,  and 
does  not  deserve  further  punishment  unless  he  com- 
mits some  new  offence.” 

‘^Thou  hast  said  well  and  hit  the  point,”  answered 
Don  Quixote ; ‘‘  and  so  I recall  the  oath  in  so  far  as 
relates  to  taking  fresh  vengeance  on  him,  but  I make 


240 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


and  confirm  it  anew  to  lead  the  life  I have  said  until 
such  time  as  I take  by  force  from  some  knight  another 
helmet  such  as  this  and  as  good ; and  think  not, 
Sancho,  that  I am  raising  smoke  with  straw  in  doing 
so,  for  I have  one  to  imitate  in  the  matter,  since  the 
very  same  thing  to  a hair  happened  in  the  case  of 
Mambrino’s  helmet,  which  cost  Sacripante  so  dear.”  ‘ 

“ Sehor,”  replied  Sancho,  let  your  worship  send 
all  such  oaths  to  the  devil,  for  they  are  very  perni- 
cious to  salvation  and  prejudicial  to  the  conscience ; 
just  tell  me  now,  if  for  several  days  to  come  we  fall 
in  with  no  man  armed  with  a helmet,  what  are  we  to 
do?  Is  the  oath  to  be  observed  in  spite  of  all  the 
inconvenience  and  discomfort  it  will  be  to  sleep  in 
your  clothes,  and  not  to  sleep  in  a house,  and  a thou- 
sand other  mortifications  contained  in  the  oath  of  that 
old  fool  the  Marquis  of  Mantua,  which  your  worship 
is  now  wanting  to  revive  ? Let  your  worship  observe 
that  there  are  no  men  in  armor  travelling  on  any  of 
these  roads,  nothing  but  carriers  and  carters,  who  not 
only  do  not  wear  helmets,  but  perhaps  never  heard 
tell  of  them  all  their  lives.” 

“Thou  art  wrong  there,”  said  Don  Quixote,  “for 
we  shall  not  have  been  two  hours  among  these  cross- 
roads before  we  see  more  men  in  armor  than  came  to 
Albraca  to  win  the  fair  Angelica.”  ^ 

1 Mambrino,  a Moorish  king  in  the  Orlando  of  Boiardo,  whose  enchanted 
helmet  was  won  by  Rinaldo.  It  was  Dardinel,  however,  not  Sacripante,  to 
whom  it  cost  so  dear.  (V.  Ariosto,  c.  xviii  , st.  151.) 

2 Albraca,  a stronghold  of  Galafron,  King  of  Cathay  and  father  of 
Angelica,  The  siege  is  one  of  the  incidents  in  the  Orlando  of  Boiardo. 


C// AFTER  X. 


241 


“ Enough,”  said  Sancho  ; “ so  be  it  then,  and  God 
grant  us  success,  and  that  the  time  for  winning  that 
island  which  is  costing  me  so  dear  may  soon  come, 
and  then  let  me  die.” 

“ I have  already  told  thee,  Sancho,”  said  Don 
Quixote,  “ not  to  give  thyself  any  uneasiness  on  that 
score ; for  if  an  island  should  fail,  there  is  the  king- 
dom of  Denmark,  or  of  Sobradisa,  which  will  fit  thee 
as  a ring  fits  the  finger,  and  all  the  more  that  being 
on  terra  fi7'ma  thou  wilt  all  the  better  enjoy  thyself. 
But  let  us  leave  that  to  its  own  time  ; see  if  thou  hast 
any  thing  for  us  to  eat  in  those  alforjas,  because  we 
must  presently  go  in  quest  of  some  castle  where  we 
may  lodge  to-night  and  make  the  balsam  I told  thee 
of,  for  I swear  to  thee  by  God,  this  ear  is  giving  me 
great  pain.” 

“ I have  here  an  onion  and  a little  cheese  and  a 
few  scraps  of  bread,”  said  Sancho,  “ but  they  are  not 
victuals  fit  for  a valiant  knight  like  your  worship.” 

“ How  little  thou  knowest  about  it,”  answered  Don 
Quixote ; ‘‘  I would  have  thee  to  know,  Sancho,  that 
it  is  the  glory  of  knights-errant  to  go  without  eating 
for  a month,  and  even  when  they  do  eat,  that  it  should 
be  of  what  comes  first  to  hand ; and  this  would  have 
been  clear  to  thee  hadst  thou  read  as  many  histories 
as  I have,  for,  though  they  are  very  many,  among  them 
all  I have  found  no  mention  made  of  knights-errant 
eating,  unless  by  accident  or  at  some  sumptuous  ban- 
quets prepared  for  them,  and  the  rest  of  the  time  they 
passed  in  dalliance.  . And  though  it  is  plain  they  could 


242 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


not  do  without  eating  and  performing  all  the  other 
natural  functions,  because,  in  fact,  they  were  men  like 
ourselves,  it  is  plain  too  that,  wandering  as  they  did 
the  most  part  of  their  lives  through  woods  and  wilds 
and  without  a cook,  their  most  usual  fare  would  be 
rustic  viands  such  as  those  thou  dost  now  offer  me ; 
so  that,  friend  Sancho,  let  not  that  distress  thee  which 
pleases  me,  and  do  not  seek  to  make  a new  world  or 
pervert  knight-errantry.”  ' 

“ Pardon  me,  your  worship,”  said  Sancho,  “ for,  as 
I cannot  read  or  write,  as  I said  just  now,  I neither 
know  nor  comprehend  the  rules  of  the  profession  of 
chivalry : henceforward  I will  stock  the  alforjas  with 
every  kind  of  dry  fruit  for  your  worship,  as  you  are  a 
knight ; and  for  myself,  as  I am  not  one,  I will  fur- 
nish them  with  poultry  and  other  things  more  sub- 
stantial.” 

“ I do  not  say,  Sancho,”  replied  Don  Quixote,  “ that 
it  is  imperative  on  knights-errant  not  to  eat  any  thing 
else  but  the  fruits  thou  speakest  of ; only  that  their 
more  usual  diet  must  be  those,  and  certain  herbs  they 
found  in  the  fields  which  they  knew  and  I know  too.” 

‘‘A  good  thing  it  is,”  answered  Sancho,  “to  know 
those  herbs,  for  to  my  thinking  it  will  be  needful  some 
day  to  put  that  knowledge  into  practice.” 

And  here  taking  out  what  he  said  he  had  brought, 
the  pair  made  their  repast  peaceably  and  sociably. 
But  anxious  to  find  quarters  for  the  night,  they  with 


* Literally,  take  knight-errantry  off  its  hinges. 


CHAPTER  X. 


243 


all  despatch  made  an  end  of  their  poor  dry  fare, 
mounted  at  once,  and  made  haste  to  reach  some  hab- 
itation before  night  set  in  ; but  daylight  and  the  hope 
of  succeeding  in  their  object  failed  them  close  by  the 
huts  of  some  goatherds,  so  they  determined  to  pass 
the  night  there,  and  it  was  as  much  to  Sancho’s  dis- 
content not  to  have  reached  a house,  as  it  was  to  his 
master’s  satisfaction  to  sleep  under  the  open  heaven, 
for  he  fancied  that  each  time  this  happened  to  him 
he  performed  an  act  of  ownership  that  helped  to 
prove  his  chivalry. 


244 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


CHAPTER  XL 

OF  WHAT  BEFELL  DON  QUIXOTE  WITH  CERTAIN  GOAL- 
HERDS. 

He  was  cordially  welcomed  by  the  goatherds,  and 
Sancho,  having  as  best  he  could  put  up  Rocinante 
and  the  ass,  drew  towards  the  fragrance  that  came 
from  some  pieces  of  salted  goat  simmering  in  a pot 
on  the  fire ; and  though  he  would  have  liked  at  once 
to  try  if  they  were  ready  to  be  transferred  from  tlie 
pot  to  the  stomach,  he  refrained  from  doing  so  as 
the  goatherds  removed  them  from  the  fire,  and  laying 
sheepskins  on  the  ground,  quickly  spread  their  rude 
table,  and  with  signs  of  hearty  good-will  invited  them 
both  to  share  what  they  had.  Round  the  skins  six 
of  the  men  belonging  to  the  fold  seated  themselves, 
having  first  with  rough  politeness  pressed  Don  Qui- 
xote to  take  a seat  upon  a trough  which  they  placed 
for  him  upside  down.  Don  Quixote  seated  himself, 
and  Sancho  remained  standing  to  serve  the  cup,  which 
was  made  of  horn.  Seeing  him  standing,  his  master 
said  to  him,  “ That  thou  mayest  see,  Sancho,  the  good 
that  knight-errantry  contains  in  itself,  and  how  those 
who  fill  any  office  in  it  are  on  the  high  road  to  be 
speedily  honored  and  esteemed  by  the  world,  I desire 


CHAPTER  XL 


245 


that  thou  seat  thyself  here  at  my  side  and  in  the 
company  of  these  worthy  people,  and  that  thou 
be  one  with  me  who  am  thy  master  and  natural 
lord,  and  that  thou  eat  from  my  plate  and  drink 
from  whatever  I drink  from ; for  the  same  may  be 
said  of  knight-errantry  as  of  love,  that  it  levels 
all.” 

Great  thanks,”  said  Sancho,  ‘‘but  I may  tell  your 
worship  that  provided  I have  enough  to  eat,  I can  eat 
it  as  well,  or  better,  standing,  and  by  myself,  than 
seated  alongside  of  an  emperor.  And  indeed,  if  the 
truth  is  to  be  told,  what  I eat  in  my  corner  without 
form  or  fuss  has  much  more  relish  for  me,  even  though 
it  be  bread  and  onions,  than  the  turkeys  of  those  other 
tables  where  I am  forced  to  chew  slowly,  drink  little, 
wipe  my  mouth  every  minute,  and  cannot  sneeze  or 
cough  if  I want  or  do  other  things  that  are  the  privi- 
leges of  liberty  and  solitude.  So,  senor,  as  for  these 
honors  which  your  worship  would  put  upon  me  as  a 
servant  and  follower  of  knight-errantry  (which  I am, 
being  your  worship’s  squire),  exchange  them  for  other 
things  which  may  be  of  more  use  and  advantage  to 
me ; for  these,  though  I fully  acknowledge  them  as 
received,  I renounce  from  this  moment  to  the  end  of 
the  world.” 

“ For  all  that,”  said  Don  Quixote,  “ thou  must  seat 
thyself,  because  him  who  humbleth  himself  God  exalt- 
eth ; ” and  seizing  him  by  the  arm  he  forced  him  to 
sit  down  beside  himself. 

The  goatherds  did  not  understand  this  jargon  about 


246 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


squires  and  knights-errant,  and  all  they  did  was  to  eat 
in  silence  and  stare  at  their  guests,  who  with  great 
elegance  and  appetite  were  stowing  away  pieces  as 
big  as  one’s  fist.  The  course  of  meat  finished,  they 
spread  upon  the  sheepskins  a great  heap  of  parched 
acorns,  and  with  them  they  put  down  a half  cheese 
harder  than  if  it  had  been  made  of  mortar.  All  this 
while  the  horn  was  not  idle,  for  it  went  round  so  con- 
stantly, now  full,  now  empty,  like  the  bucket  of  a 
water-wheel,'  that  it  soon  drained  one  of  the  two 
wine-skins  that  were  in  sight.  When  Don  Quixote 
had  quite  appeased  his  appetite  he  took  up  a handful 
of  the  acorns,  and  contemplating  them  attentively 
delivered  himself  somewhat  in  this  fashion  : ^ 

“ Happy  the  age,  happy  the  time,  to  which  the 
ancients  gave  the  name  of  golden,  not  because  in  that 
fortunate  age  the  gold  so  coveted  in  this  our  iron  one 
was  gained  without  toil,  but  because  they  that  lived 
in  it  knew  not  the  two  words  ‘ mine  ’ and  ‘ thine  ’ ! 
In  that  blessed  age  all  things  were  in  common;  to 
win  the  daily  food  no  labor  was  required  of  any  save 
to  stretch  forth  his  hand  and  gather  it  from  the  sturdy 
oaks  that  stood  generously  inviting  him  with  their 
sweet  ripe  fruit.  The  clear  streams  and  running 


^ “Water-wheel”  — noria  — a machine  used  for  irrigation  in  Spain,  by 
which  the  water  is  raised  in  pots  or  buckets  attached  to  the  circumference  of 
a large  wheel. 

2 Tlie  eulogy  of  the  golden  age  is  one  of  the  loci  classici  of  Don  Quixote 
quoted  in  every  Spanish  anthology:  the  reader,  however,  must  not  judge  of 
it  by  translation,  which  cannot  give  the  stately  roll  and  flow  of  the  original 
Castilian. 


CHAPTER  XI. 


247 


brooks  yielded  their  savory ' limpid  waters  in  noble 
abundance.  The  busy  and  sagacious  bees  fixed  their 
republic  in  the  clefts  of  the  rocks  and  hollows  of  the 
trees,  offering  without  usance  the  plenteous  produce 
of  their  fragrant  toil  to  every  hand.  The  mighty  cork 
trees,  unenforced  save  of  their  own  courtesy,  shed  the 
broad  light  bark  that  served  at  first  to  roof  the  houses 
supported  by  rude  stakes,  a protection  against  the  in- 
clemency of  heaven  alone.  Then  all  was  peace,  all 
friendship,  all  concord ; as  yet  the  dull  share  of  the 
crooked  plough  had  not  dared  to  rend  and  pierce 
the  tender  bowels  of  our  first  mother  that  without 
compulsion  yielded  from  every  portion  of  her  broad 
fertile  bosom  all  that  could  satisfy,  sustain,  and  delight 
the  children  that  then  possessed  her.  Then  was  it 
that  the  innocent  and  fair  young  shepherdesses  roamed 
from  vale  to  vale  and  hill  to  hill,  with  flowing  locks, 
and  no  more  garments  than  were  needful  modestly  to 
cover  what  modesty  seeks  and  ever  sought  to  hide. 
Nor  were  their  ornaments  like  those  in  use  to-day, 
set  off  by  Tyrian  purple,  and  silk  tortured  in  endless 
fashions,  but  the  wreathed  leaves  of  the  green  dock 
and  ivy,  wherewith  they  went  as  bravely  and  becom- 
ingly decked  as  our  Court  dames  with  all  the  rare  and 
far-fetched  artifices  that  idle  curiosity  has  taught  them. 
Then  the  love-thoughts  of  the  heart  clothed  them- 


* Water  is  almost  worshipped  in  thirsty  Spain,  and  many  a complimentary 
epithet  bestowed  upon  it  that  sounds  odd  under  moister  skies : agita  7niiy 
rica  — “ very  rich  water  ” — is  a common  encomium  from  a Spaniard  after  a 
hearty  pull  at  the  alcarrazn 


248 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


selves  simply  and  naturally ' as  the  heart  conceived 
them,  nor  sought  to  commend  themselves  by  forced 
and  rambling  verbiage.  Fraud,  deceit,  or  malice  had 
then  not  yet  mingled  with  truth  and  sincerity.  Justice 
held  her  ground,  undisturbed  and  unassailed  by  the 
efforts  of  favor  and  of  interest,  that  now  so  much 
impair,  pervert,  and  beset  her.  Arbitrary  law  had  not 
yet  established  itself  in  the  mind  of  the  judge,  for 
then  there  was  no  cause  to  judge  and  no  one  to  be 
judged.  Maidens  and  modesty,  as  I have  said,  wan- 
dered at  will  alone  and  unattended,  without  fear  of 
insult  from  lawlessness  or  libertine  assault,  and  if  they 
were  undone  it  was  of  their  own  will  and  pleasure. 
But  now  in  this  hateful  age  of  ours  not  one  is  safe, 
not  though  some  new  labyrinth  like  that  of  Crete  con- 
ceal and  surround  her ; even  there  the  pestilence  of 
gallantry  will  make  its  way  to  them  through  chinks  or 
on  the  air  by  the  zeal  of  its  accursed  importunity,  and, 
despite  of  all  seclusion,  lead  them  to  ruin.  In  defence 
of  these,  as  time  advanced  and  wickedness  increased, 
the  order  of  knights-errant  was  instituted,  to  defend 
maidens,  to  protect  widows,  and  to  succor  the  orphans 
and  the  needy.  To  this  order  I belong,  brother  goat- 
herds, to  whom  I return  thanks  for  the  hospitality  and 
kindly  welcome  ye  offer  me  and  my  squire  ; for  though 
by  natural  law  all  living  are  bound  to  show  favor  to 


* Clemencin  and  Hartzenbusch,  why  I know  not,  object  to  se  decoraban, 
the  reading  of  the  original  editions,  and  the  latter  substitutes  se  declaraban. 
I venture  to  think  the  original  reading  admits  of  the  interpretation  I have 
given. 


CHAPTER  XI. 


249 


knights-errant,  yet,  seeing  that  without  knowing  this 
obligation  ye  have  welcomed  and  feasted  me,  it  is 
right  that  with  all  the  good-will  in  my  power  I should 
thank  you  for  yours.” 

All  this  long  harangue  (which  might  very  well  have 
been  spared)  our  knight  delivered  because  the  acorns 
they  gave  him  reminded  him  of  the  golden  age  ; and 
the  whim  seized  him  to  address  all  this  unnecessary 
argument  to  the  goatherds,  who  listened  to  him  gaping 
in  amazement  without  saying  a word  in  reply.  Sancho 
likewise  held  his  peace  and  ate  acorns,  and  paid  re- 
peated visits  to  the  second  wine-skin,  which  they  had 
hung  up  on  a cork  tree  to  keep  the  wine  cool. 

Don  Quixote  was  longer  in  talking  than  in  finishing 
his  supper,  at  the  end  of  which  one  of  the  goatherds 
said,  “That  your  worship,  senor  knight-errant,  may 
say  with  more  truth  that  we  show  you  hospitality  with 
ready  good-will,  we  will  give  you  amusement  and 
pleasure  by  making  one  of  our  comrades  sing : he 
will  be  here  before  long,  and  he  is  a very  intelligent 
youth  and  deep  in  love,  and  what  is  more  he  can 
read  and  write  and  play  on  the  rebeck^  to  perfection.” 

The  goatherd  had  hardly  done  speaking,  when  the 
notes  of  the  rebeck  reached  their  ears ; and  shortly 
after,  the  player  came  up,  a very  good-looking  young 
man  of  about  two-and-twenty.  His  comrades  asked 
him  if  he  had  supped,  and  on  his  replying  that  he  had, 
he  who  had  already  made  the  offer  said  to  him,  “ In 


In  the  Spanish,  rabel,  a small  three-stringed  lute  of  Moorish  origin. 


250 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


that  case,  Antonio,  thou  mayest  as  well  do  us  the 
pleasure  of  singing  a little,  that  the  gentleman,  our 
guest  here,  may  see  that  even  in  the  mountains  and 
woods  there  are  musicians ; we  have  told  him  of  thy 
accomplishments,  and  we  want  thee  to  show  them  and 
prove  that  we  say  true ; so,  as  thou  livest,  pray  sit 
down  and  sing  that  ballad  about  thy  love  that  thy  uncle 
the  prebendary  made  thee,  and  that  was  so  much  liked 
in  the  town.” 

With  all  my  heart,”  said  the  young  man,  and  with- 
out waiting  for  any  more  pressing  he  seated  himself 
on  the  trunk  of  a felled  oak,  and  timing  his  rebeck, 
presently  began  with  right  good  grace  to  sing  to  these 
words. 


ANTONIO’S  BALLAD.* 

Thou  dost  love  me  well,  Olalla ; 

Well  I know  it,  even  though 
Love’s  mute  tongues,  thine  eyes,  have  never 
By  their  glances  told  me  so. 

For  I know  my  love  thou  knowest. 
Therefore  thine  to  claim  I dare: 

Once  it  ceases  to  be  secret. 

Love  need  never  feel  despair. 


* Antonio’s  ballad  is  in  imitation  of  a species  of  popular  poetry  that 
occupies  nearly  as  large  a space  as  the  romantic  and  historical  ballads  in  the 
old  roviajiceros.  These  gay,  7iaive,  simple  lays  of  peasant  life  and  love  are 
as  thoroughly  national  and  peculiar  to  Spain  as  the  historical  ballads  them- 
selves, and  in  every  way  present  a striking  contrast  to  the  artificial  pastoral 
sonnets  and  canciones  of  Italian  importation.  The  imitation  of  this  kind  of 
poetry  was  a favorite  pastime  with  the  poets  of  the  Spanish  Augustan  age,  and 
strange  to  say  the  poet  who  showed  the  lightest  touch  and  brightest  fancy  in 


CHAPTER  XL 


25 


True  it  is,  Olalla,  sometimes 
Thou  hast  all  too  plainly  shown 

That  thy  heart  is  brass  in  hardness, 
And  thy  snowy  bosom  stone. 

Yet  for  all  that,  in  thy  coyness. 

And  thy  fickle  fits  between, 

Hope  is  there  — at  least  the  border 
Of  her  garment  may  be  seen. 

Lures  to  faith  are  they,  those  glimpses, 
And  to  faith  in  thee  I hold ; 

Kindness  cannot  make  it  stronger. 
Coldness  cannot  make  it  cold. 

If  it  be  that  love  is  gentle. 

In  thy  gentleness  I see 

Something  holding  out  assurance 
To  the  hope  of  winning  thee. 

If  it  be  that  in  devotion 
Lies  a power  hearts  to  move. 

That  which  every  day  I show  thee. 
Helpful  to  my  suit  should  prove. 


these  compositions,  and  caught  most  happily  the  simplicity  and  freshness  of 
the  originals,  was  Gongora,  whose  name  is  generally  associated  with  poetry 
the  exact  opposite  of  this  in  every  particular.  Cervantes  apparently  valued 
himself  more  upon  his  sonnets  and  artificial  verses;  a preference  regretted,  I 
imagine,  by  most  of  his  readers.  This  ballad  has  been  hardly  treated  by  the 
translators.  The  language  and  measures  used  by  Shelton  and  Jervas  are 
about  as  well  adapted  to  represent  a Spanish  popular  lyric  as  a dray-horse  to 
draw  a pony-chaise.  The  measure  of  the  original  is  the  ordinary  ballad 
measure,  an  eight-syllable  trochaic,  with  the  assonant  rhyme  in  the  second 
and  fourth  lines.  The  latter  peculiarity  I have  made  no  attempt  to  imitate 
here,  but  examples  of  it  will  be  found  farther  on. 


252 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


Many  a time  thou  must  have  noticed  — 
If  to  notice  thou  dost  care  — 

How  I go  about  on  Monday 
Dressed  in  all  my  Sunday  wear. 

Love’s  eyes  love  to  look  on  brightness  ; 

Love  loves  what  is  gayly  drest ; 
Sunday,  Monday,  all  I care  is 

Thou  shouldst  see  me  in  my  best. 

No  account  I make  of  dances. 

Or  of  strains  that  pleased  thee  so, 
Keeping  thee  awake  from  midnight 
Till  the  cocks  began  to  crow ; 

Or  of  how  I roundly  swore  it 
That  there’s  none  so  fair  as  thou ; 
True  it  is,  but  as  I said  it, 

By  the  girls  I’m  hated  now. 

For  Teresa  of  the  hillside 
At  my  praise  of  thee  was  sore ; 

Said,  “ You  think  you  love  an  angel; 
It’s  a monkey  you  adore ; 

“ Caught  by  all  her  glittering  trinkets, 
And  her  borrowed  braids  of  hair. 

And  a host  of  made-up  beauties 
That  would  Love  himself  ensnare.” 

’Twas  a lie,  and  so  I told  her. 

And  her  cousin  at  the  word 
Gave  me  his  defiance  for  it; 

And  what  followed  thou  hast  heard. 


CHAPTER  XL 


253 


Mine  is  no  high-flown  affection, 

Mine  no  passion  par  amours  — 

As  they  call  it  — what  I offer 
Is  an  honest  love,  and  pure. 

Cunning  cords  * the  holy  Church  has, 

Cords  of  softest  silk  they  be  ; 

Put  thy  neck  beneath  the  yoke,  dear; 

Mine  will  follow,  thou  wilt  see. 

Else  — and  once  for  all  I swear  it 
By  the  saint  of  most  renown  — 

If  I ever  quit  the  mountains, 

’Twill  be  in  a friar’s  gown. 

Here  the  goatherd  brought  his  song  to  an  end,  and 
though  Don  Quixote  entreated  him  to  sing  more, 
Sancho  had  no  mind  that  way,  being  more  inclined  for 
sleep  than  for  listening  to  songs ; so  said  he  to  his 
master,  “ Your  worship  will  do  well  to  settle  at  once 
where  you  mean  to  pass  the  night,  for  the  labor  these 
good  men  are  at  all  day  does  not  allow  them  to  spend 
the  night  in  singing.” 

“ I understand  thee,  Sancho,”  replied  Don  Quixote  ; 
“ I perceive  clearly  that  those  visits  to  the  wine-skin 
demand  compensation  in  sleep  rather  than  in  music.” 

It’s  sweet  to  us  all,  blessed  be  God,”  said  Sancho. 

“ I do  not  deny  it,”  replied  Don  Quixote ; “ but 
settle  thyself  where  thou  wilt ; those  of  my  calling  are 


Coyundas,  the  cords  or  thongs  by  which  the  horns  of  the  draught  oxen 
are  bound  to  the  yoke. 


254 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


more  becomingly  employed  in  watching  than  in  sleep- 
ing ; still  it  would  be  as  well  if  thou  wert  to  dress  this 
ear  for  me  again,  for  it  is  giving  me  more  pain  than  it 
need.” 

Sancho  did  as  he  bade  him,  but  one  of  the  goat- 
herds seeing  the  wound  told  him  not  to  be  uneasy,  as 
he  would  apply  a remedy  with  which  it  would  be  soon 
healed ; and  gathering  some  leaves  of  rosemary,  of 
which  there  was  a great  quantity  there,  he  chewed 
them  and  mixed  them  with  a little  salt,  and  applying 
them  to  the  ear  he  secured  them  firmly  with  a band- 
age, assuring  him  that  no  other  treatment  would  be 
required,  and  so  it  proved. 


CHAPTER  XII, 


255 


CHAFl’ER  XII. 

OF  WHAT  A GOATHERD  RELATED  TO  THOSE  WITH  DON 
QUIXOTE. 

Just  then  another  young  man,  one  of  those  who 
fetched  their  provisions  from  the  village,  came  up  and 
said,  “ Do  you  know  what  is  going  on  in  the  village, 
comrades?  ” 

How  could  we  know  it?”  replied  one  of  them. 

“Well,  then,  you  must  know,”  continued  the  young 
man,  “ this  morning  that  famous  student-shepherd 
called  Chrysostom  died,  and  it  is  rumored  that  he  died 
of  love  for  that  devil  of  a village  girl  the  daughter  of 
Guillermo  the  Rich,  she  that  wanders  about  the  wolds 
here  in  the  dress  of  a shepherdess.” 

“ You  mean  Marcela?”  said  one. 

“ Her  I mean,”  answered  the  goatherd  ; “ and  the 
best  of  it  is,  he  has  directed  in  his  will  that  he  is  to  be 
buried  in  the  fields  like  a Moor,  and  at  the  foot  of 
the  rock  where  the  Cork-tree  spring  is,  because,  as  the 
story  goes  (and  they  say  he  himself  said  so),  that  was 
the  place  where  he  first  saw  her.  And  he  has  also  left 
other  directions  which  the  clergy  of  the  village  say 
should  not  and  must  not  be  obeyed  because  they 
savor  of  paganism.  To  all  which  his  great  friend 


256 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


Ambrosio  the  student,  he  who,  like  him,  also  went 
dressed  as  a shepherd,  replies  that  every  thing  must 
be  done  without  any  omission  according  to  the  direc- 
tions left  by  Chrysostom,  and  about  this  the  village  is 
all  in  commotion ; however,  report  says  that,  after  all, 
what  Ambrosio  and  all  the  shepherds  his  friends  desire 
will  be  done,  and  to-morrow  they  are  coming  to  bury 
him  with  great  ceremony  where  I said.  I am  sure  it 
will  be  something  worth  seeing ; at  least  I will  not  fail 
to  go  and  see  it  even  if  I knew  I should  not  return  to 
the  village  to-morrow.” 

“ We  will  do  the  same,”  answered  the  goatherds, 
“ and  cast  lots  to  see  who  must  stay  to  mind  the  goats 
of  all.” 

“ Thou  sayest  well,  Pedro,”  said  one,  “ though  there 
will  be  no  need  of  taking  that  trouble,  for  I will  stay 
behind  for  all ; and  don’t  suppose  it  is  virtue  or  want 
of  curiosity  in  me  ; it  is  that  the  splinter  that  ran  into 
my  foot  the  other  day  will  not  let  me  walk.” 

“ For  all  that,  we  thank  thee,”  answered  Pedro. 

Don  Quixote  asked  Pedro  to  tell  him  who  the  dead 
man  was  and  who  the  shepherdess,  to  which  Pedro 
replied  that  all  he  knew  was  that  the  dead  man  was  a 
wealthy  gentleman  belonging  to  a village  in  those 
mountains,  who  had  been  a student  at  Salamanca  for 
many  years,  at  the  end  of  which  he  returned  to  his 
village  with  the  reputation  of  being  very  learned  and 
deeply  read.  Above  all,  they  said,  he  was  learned  in 
the  science  of  the  stars  and  of  what  went  on  yonder 
in  the  heavens  and  the  sun  and  the  moon,  for  he 


UBn\r;.' 

UHWt«S\TY  Of  ILLINOIS 


CI/APTE/^  XII. 


257 


told  us  of  the  cris  of  the  sun  and  moon  to  the  exact 
time. 

“ Eclipse  it  is  called,  friend,  not  cris,  the  darkening 
of  those  two  luminaries,”  said  Don  Quixote ; but 
Pedro,  not  troubling  himself  with  trifles,  went  on  with 
his  story,  saying,  ‘‘  Also  he  foretold  when  the  year  was 
going  to  be  one  of  abundance  or  estility.” 

“ Sterility,  you  mean,  friend,”  said  Don  Quixote. 

“Sterility  or  estility,”  answered  Pedro,  “it  is  all 
the  same  in  the  end.  And  I can  tell  you  that  by  this 
his  father  and  friends  who  believed  him  grew  very 
rich  because  they  did  as  he  advised  them,  bidding 
them  ‘ sow  barley  this  year,  not  wheat ; this  year  you 
may  sow  pulse  ' and  not  barley ; the  next  there  will 
be  a full  oil  crop,  and  the  three  following  not  a drop 
will  be  got.’  ” 

“ That  science  is  called  astrology,”  said  Don  Qui- 
xote. 

“ I do  not  know  what  it  is  called,”  replied  Pedro, 
“ but  I know  that  he  knew  all  this  and  more  besides. 
But,  to  make  an  end,  not  many  months  had  passed 
after  he  returned  from  Salamanca,  when  one  day  he 
appeared  dressed  as  a shepherd  with  his  crook  and 
sheepskin,  having  put  off  the  long  gown  he  wore  as  a 
scholar ; and  at  the  same  time  his  great  friend,  Am- 
brosio  by  name,  who  had  been  his  companion  in  his 
studies,  took  to  the  shepherd’s  dress  with  him.  I 
forgot  to  say  that  Chrysostom  who  is  dead  was  a great 


* “ Pulse’’  — garbanzos,  or  chick-peas,  one  of  the  invariable  constituents 
of  the  olla  or  puchero,  and  therefore  an  important  crop  In  Spain. 


258 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


man  for  writing  verses,  so  much  so  that  he  made 
carols  for  Christmas  Eve,  and  plays  ' for  Corpus 
Christ!  which  the  young  men  of  our  village  acted, 
and  all  said  they  were  excellent.  When  the  villagers 
saw  the  two  scholars  so  unexpectedly  appearing  in 
shepherds’  dress  they  were  lost  in  wonder,  and  could 
not  guess  what  had  led  them  to  make  so  extraordinary 
a change.  About  this  time  the  father  of  our  Chrysos- 
tom died,  and  he  was  left  heir  to  a large  amount  of 
property  in  chattels  as  well  as  in  land,  no  small  num- 
ber of  cattle  and  sheep,  and  a large  sum  of  money, 
of  all  of  which  the  young  man  was  left  dissolute 
owner,  and  indeed  he  was  deserving  of  it  all,  for  he 
was  a very  good  comrade,  and  kind-hearted,  and  a 
friend  of  worthy  folk,  and  had  a countenance  like 
a benediction.  Presently  it  came  to  be  known  that 
he  had  changed  his  dress  with  no  other  object  than 
to  wander  about  these  wastes  after  that  shepherdess 
Marcela  our  lad  mentioned  a while  ago,  with  whom 
the  deceased  Chrysostom  had  fallen  in  love.  And  I 
must  tell  you  now,  for  it  is  well  you  should  know  it, 
who  this  girl  is ; perhaps,  and  even  without  any  per- 
haps, you  will  not  have  heard  any  thing  like  it  all  the 
days  of  your  life,  though  you  should  live  more  years 
than  sarna.”  ^ 

1 “ Plays”  — atitos,  religious  allegorical  dramas. 

2 Mas  viejo  que  sarna  — (Prov.  250)  “ older  than  itch  ” — is  a very  old 
popular  phrase.  Don  Quixote,  either  not  knowing  it  or  else  not  recognizing 
it  in  the  form  in  which  Pedro  puts  it,  supposes  him  to  mean  Sarah  the  wife 
of  Abraham.  Though  Cervantes  tries  to  observe  dramatic  propriety  by 
making  Pedro  blunder,  in  the  end  he  puts  into  his  mouth  language  as  fine 
and  words  as  long  as  Don  Quixote’s. 


CHAPTER  XII. 


259 


“Say  Sara,”  said  Don  Quixote,  unable  to  endure 
the  goatherd’s  confusion  of  words. 

“The  sarna  lives  long  enough,”  answered  Pedro; 
“ and  if,  seiior,  you  must  go  finding  fault  with  words 
at  every  step,  we  shall  not  make  an  end  of  it  this 
twelvemonth.” 

“ Pardon  me,  friend,”  said  Don  Quixote  ; “ but,  as 
there  is  such  a difference  between  sarna  and  Sara,  I 
told  you  of  it ; however,  you  have  answered  very 
rightly,  for  sarna  lives  longer  than  Sara : so  continue 
your  story,  and  I will  not  object  any  more  to  any 
thing.” 

“ I say  then,  my  dear  sir,”  said  the  goatherd, 
“ that  in  our  village  there  was  a farmer  even  richer 
than  the  father  of  Chrysostom,  who  was  named  Guil- 
lermo, and  upon  whom  God  bestowed,  over  and  above 
great  wealth,  a daughter  at  whose  birth  her  mother 
died,  the  most  respected  woman  there  was  in  this 
neighborhood ; I fancy  I can  see  her  now  with  that 
countenance  which  had  the  sun  on  one  side  and  the 
moon  on  the  other ; and  moreover  active,  and  kind 
to  the  poor,  for  which  I trust  that  at  the  present 
moment  her  soul  is  in  bliss  with  God  in  the  other 
world.  Her  husband  Guillermo  died  of  grief  at  the 
death  of  so  good  a wife,  leaving  his  daughter  Marcela, 
a child  and  rich,  to  the  care  of  an  uncle  of  hers,  a 
priest  and  prebendary  in  our  village.  The  girl  grew 
up  with  such  beauty  that  it  reminded  us  of  her 
mother’s,  which  was  very  great,  and  yet  it  was  thought 
that  the  daughter’s  would  exceed  it ; and  so  when  she 


26o 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


reached  the  age  of  fourteen  to  fifteen  years  nobody  be- 
held her  but  blessed  God  that  had  made  her  so  beauti- 
ful, and  the  greater  number  were  in  love  with  her  past 
redemption.  Her  uncle  kept  her  in  great  seclusion 
and  retirement,  but  for  all  that  the  fame  of  her  great 
beauty  spread  so  that,  as  well  for  it  as  for  her  great 
wealth,  her  uncle  was  asked,  solicited,  and  impor- 
tuned, to  give  her  in  marriage  not  only  by  those  of 
our  town  but  of  those  many  leagues  round,  and  by 
the  persons  of  highest  quality  in  them.  But  he,  being 
a good  Christian  man,  though  he  desired  to  give  her 
in  marriage  at  once,  seeing  her  to  be  old  enough,  was 
unwilling  to  do  so  without  her  consent,  not  that  he 
had  any  eye  to  the  gain  and  profit  which  the  custody 
of  the  girl’s  property  brought  him  while  he  put  off 
her  marriage  ; and,  faith,  this  was  said  in  praise  of  the 
good  priest  in  more  than  one  set  in  the  town.  For  I 
would  have  you  know.  Sir  Errant,  that  in  these  little 
villages  every  thing  is  talked  about  and  every  thing  is 
carped  at,  and  rest  assured,  as  I am,  that  the  priest 
must  be  over  and  above  good  who  forces  his  parish- 
ioners to  speak  well  of  him,  especially  in  villages.” 

“ That  is  the  truth,”  said  Don  Quixote  ; “ but  go  on, 
for  the  story  is  very  good,  and  you,  good  Pedro,  tell 
it  with  very  good  grace.” 

“ May  that  of  the  Lord  not  be  wanting  to  me,” 
said  Pedro  ; “ that  is  the  one  to  have.  To  proceed  : 
you  must  know  that  though  the  uncle  put  before  his 
niece  and  described  to  her  the  qualities  of  each  one 
in  particular  of  the  many  who  had  asked  her  in  mar- 


CHAPTER  XIL 


261 

riage,  begging  her  to  marry  and  make  a choice  accord- 
ing to  her  own  taste,  she  never  gave  any  other  answer 
than  that  she  had  no  desire  to  marry  just  yet,  and 
that  being  so  young  she  did  not  think  herself  fit  to 
bear  the  burden  of  matrimony.  At  these,  to  all  ap- 
pearance, reasonable  excuses  that  she  made,  her  uncle 
ceased  to  urge  her,  and  waited  till  she  was  somewhat 
more  advanced  in  age  and  could  mate  herself  to  her 
own  liking.  For,  said  he  — and  he  said  quite  right  — 
parents  are  not  to  settle  children  in  life  against  their 
will.  But  when  one  least  looked  for  it,  lo  and  be- 
hold ! one  day  the  demure  Marcela  makes  her  appear- 
ance turned  shepherdess ; and,  in  spite  of  her  uncle 
and  all  those  of  the  town  that  strove  to  dissuade  her, 
took  to  going  a-field  with  the  other  shepherd-lasses 
of  the  village,  and  tending  her  own  flock.  And  so, 
since  she  appeared  in  public,  and  her  beauty  came  to 
be  seen  openly,  I could  not  well  tell  you  how  many 
rich  youths,  gentlemen  and  peasants,  have  adopted 
the  costume  of  Chrysostom,  and  go  about  these  fields 
making  love  to  her.  One  of  these,  as  has  been 
already  said,  was  our  deceased  friend,  of  whom  they 
say  that  he  did  not  love  but  adore  her.  But  you  must 
not  suppose,  because  Marcela  chose  a life  of  such  lib- 
erty and  independence,  and  of  so  little  or  rather  no 
retirement,  that  she  has  given  any  occasion,  or  even 
the  semblance  of  one,  for  disparagement  of  her  purity 
and  modesty ; on  the  contrary,  such  and  so  great  is 
the  vigilance  with  which  she  watches  over  her  honor, 
that  of  all  those  that  court  and  woo  her  not  one  has 


262 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


boasted,  or  can  with  truth  boast,  that  she  has  given 
him  any  hope  however  small  of  obtaining  his  desire. 
For  although  she  does  not  avoid  or  shun  the  society 
and  conversation  of  the  shepherds,  and  treats  them 
courteously  and  kindly,  should  any  one  of  them  come 
to  declare  his  intention  to  her,  though  it  be  one  as 
proper  and  holy  as  that  of  matrimony,  she  flings  him 
from  her  like  a catapult.  And  with  this  kind  of  dis- 
position she  does  more  harm  in  this  country  than  if 
the  plague  had  got  into  it,  for  her  affability  and  her 
beauty  draw  on  the  hearts  of  those  that  associate  with 
her  to  love  her  and  to  court  her,  but  her  scorn  and 
her  frankness  ’ bring  them  to  the  brink  of  despair ; 
and  so  they  know  not  what  to  say  save  to  proclaim 
her  aloud  cruel  and  hard-hearted,  and  other  names 
of  the  same  sort  which  well  describe  the  nature  of  her 
character ; and  if  you  should  remain  here  any  time, 
senor,  you  would  hear  these  hills  and  valleys  resound- 
ing with  the  laments  of  the  rejected  ones  who  pursue 
her.  Not  far  from  this  there  is  a spot  where  there  are 
a couple  of  dozen  of  tall  beeches,  and  there  is  not 
one  of  them  but  has  carved  and  written  on  its  smooth 
bark  the  name  of  Marcela,  and  above  some  a crown 
carved  on  the  same  tree  as  though  her  lover  would 
say  more  plainly  that  Marcela  wore  and  deserved  that 
of  all  human  beauty.  Here  one  shepherd  is  sighing, 
there  another  is  lamenting  ; there  love  songs  are  heard, 
here  despairing  elegies.  One  will  pass  all  the  hours 

* “ Frankness” — desengauo  — ninre  properly  “ undeceiving,”  but  there 
is  no  equivalent  word  in  English. 


CHAPTER  XIL 


263 


of  the  night  seated  at  the  foot  of  some  oak  or  rock, 
and  there,  without  having  closed  his  weeping  eyes,  the 
sun  finds  him  in  the  morning  bemused  and  bereft  of 
sense ; and  another  without  relief  or  respite  to  his 
sighs,  stretched  on  the  burning  sand  in  the  full  heat 
of  the  sultry  summer  noontide,  makes  his  appeal  to 
the  compassionate  heavens,  and  over  one  and  the 
other,  over  these  and  all,  the  beautiful  Marcela  tri- 
umphs free  and  careless.  And  all  of  us  that  know 
her  are  waiting  to  see  what  her  pride  will  come  to, 
and  who  is  to  be  the  happy  man  that  will  succeed  in 
taming  a nature  so  formidable  and  gaining  possession 
of  a beauty  so  supreme.  All  that  I have  told  you 
being  such  well-established  truth,  I am  persuaded  that 
what  they  say  of  the  cause  of  Chrysostom’s  death, 
as  our  lad  told  us,  is  the  ^ same.  And  so  I advise 
you,  senor,  fail  not  to  be  present  to-morrow  at  his 
burial,  which  will  be  well  worth  seeing,  for  Chrysos- 
tom had  many  friends,  and  it  is  not  half  a league 
from  this  place  to  where  he  directed  he  should  be 
buried.” 

“ I will  make  a point  of  it,”  said  Don  Quixote,  “ and 
I thank  you  for  the  pleasure  you  have  given  me  by 
relating  so  interesting  a tale.” 

Oh,”  said  the  goatherd,  “ I do  not  know  even  the 
half  of  what  has  happened  to  the  lovers  of  Marcela, 
but  perhaps  to-morrow  we  may  fall  in  with  some  shep- 
herd on  the  road  who  can  tell  us ; and  now  it  will  be 
well  for  you  to  go  and  sleep  under  cover,  for  the  night 
air  may  hurt  your  wound,  though  with  the  remedy  I 


264 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


have  applied  to  you  there  is  no  fear  of  an  untoward 
result.” 

Sancho  Panza,  who  was  wishing  the  goatherd’s  lo- 
quacity at  the  devil,'  on  his  part  begged  his  master  to 
go  into  Pedro’s  hut  to  sleep.  He  did  so,  and  passed 
all  the  rest  of  the  night  in  thinking  of  his  lady  Dul- 
cinea,  in  imitation  of  the  lovers  of  Marcela.  Sancho 
Panza  settled  himself  between  Rocinante  and  his  ass, 
and  slept,  not  like  a lover  v/ho  had  been  discarded, 
but  like  a man  who  had  been  soundly  kicked. 


* Perhaps  the  reader  will  think  Sancho  had  some  justification;  an  epi- 
demic of  verbosity,  indeed,  rages  round  the  corpse  of  the  unhappy  Chrysos- 
tom; but  it  must  be  remembered  verbosity  was  then  rampant  in  literature  and 
especially  in  Spanish  literature,  as  all  who  know  Guzman  de  Alfaracke.t 
The  Picara  Justi7ia,  Marcos  de  Obregon,  and  books  of  the  same  sort,  will 
own;  and  if  Cervantes  did  not  wholly  escape  it,  his  fits  of  it  were  only 
occasional. 


CHAPTER  XIIT 


265 


CHAPTER  XIIL 

IN  WHICH  IS  ENDED  THE  STORY  OF  THE  SHEPHERDESS 
MARCELA,  WITH  OTHER  INCIDENTS. 

But  hardly  had  day  begun  to  show  itself  through 
the  balconies  of  the  east,  when  five  of  the  six  goat- 
herds came  to  rouse  Don  Quixote  and  tell  him  that 
if  he  was  still  of  a mind  to  go  and  see  the  famous 
burial  of  Chrysostom  they  would  bear  him  company. 
Don  Quixote,  who  desired  nothing  better,  rose  and 
ordered  Sancho  to  saddle  and  pannel  at  once,  which 
he  did  with  all  despatch,  and  with  the  same  they  all 
set  out  forthwith.  They  had  not  gone  a quarter  of  a 
league  when  at  the  meeting  of  two  paths  they  saw 
coming  towards  them  some  six  shepherds  dressed  in 
black  sheepskins  and  with  their  heads  crowned  with 
garlands  of  cypress  and  bitter  oleander.  Each  of 
them  carried  a stout  holly  staff  in  his  hand,  and  along 
with  them  there  came  two  men  of  quality  on  horse- 
back in  handsome  travelling  dress,  with  three  servants 
on  foot  accompanying  them.  Courteous  salutations 
were  exchanged  on  meeting,  and  inquiring  one  of  the 
other  which  way  each  party  was  going,  they  learned 
that  all  were  bound  for  the  scene  of  the  burial,  so 
they  went  on  all  together. 

One  of  those  on  horseback  addressing  his  com- 


266 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


panion  said  to  him,  ‘‘  It  seems  to  me,  Senor  Vivaldo, 
that  we  may  reckon  as  well  spent  the  delay  we  shall 
incur  in  seeing  this  remarkable  funeral,  for  remarkable 
it  cannot  but  be  judging  by  the  strange  things  these 
shepherds  have  told  us,  of  both  the  dead  shepherd 
and  homicide  shepherdess.” 

“ So  I think  too,”  replied  Vivaldo,  “ and  I would  delay 
not  to  say  a day,  but  four,  for  the  sake  of  seeing  it.” 

Don  Quixote  asked  them  what  it  was  they  had 
heard  of  Marcela  and  Chrysostom.  The  traveller 
answered  that  the  same  morning  they  had  met  these 
shepherds,  and  seeing  them  dressed  in  this  mournful 
fashion  they  had  asked  them  the  reason  of  their 
appearing  in  such  a guise  ; which  one  of  them  gave, 
describing  the  strange  behavior  and  beauty  of  a shep- 
herdess called  Marcela,  and  the  loves  of  many  who 
courted  her,  together  with  the  death  of  that  Chrysos- 
tom to  whose  burial  they  were  going.  In  short,  he  re- 
peated all  that  Pedro  had  related  to  Don  Quixote. 

This  conversation  dropped,  and  another  was  com- 
menced by  him  who  was  called  Vivaldo  asking  Don 
Quixote  what  was  the  reason  that  led  him  to  go 
armed  in  that  fashion  in  a country  so  peaceful.  To 
which  Don  Quixote  replied,  “The  pursuit  of  my  call- 
ing does  not  allow  or  permit  me  to  go  in  any  other 
fashion ; easy  life,  enjoyment,  and  repose  were  in- 
vented for  soft  courtiers,  but  toil,  unrest,  and  arms, 
were  invented  and  made  for  those  alone  whom  the 
world  calls  knight-errants,  of  whom  I,  though  un- 
worthy, am  the  least  of  all.” 


CI/APTER  XIII. 


267 


The  instant  they  heard  this  all  set  him  down  as 
mad,  and  the  better  to  settle  the  point  and  discover 
what  kind  of  madness  his  was,  Vivaldo  proceeded  to 
ask  him  what  knights-errant  meant. 

“ Have  not  your  worships,”  replied  Don  Quixote, 
“ read  the  annals  and  histories  of  England,  in  which 
are  recorded  the  famous  deeds  of  King  Arthur,  whom 
we  in  our  popular  Castilian  invariably  call  King  Artus, 
with  regard  to  whom  it  is  an  ancient  tradition,  and 
commonly  received  all  over  that  kingdom  of  Great 
Britain,  that  this  king  did  not  die,  but  was  changed 
by  magic  art  into  a raven,  and  that  in  process  of 
time  he  is  to  return  to  reign  and  recover  his  kingdom 
and  sceptre  ; for  which  reason  it  cannot  be  proved 
that  from  that  time  to  this  any  Englishman  ever  killed 
a raven?  Well,  then,  in  the  time  of  this  good  king 
that  famous  order  of  chivalry  of  the  Knights  of  the 
Round  Table  was  instituted,  and  the  amour  of  Don 
Lancelot  of  the  Lake  with  the  Queen  Guinevere 
occurred,  precisely  as  is  there  related,  the  go-between 
and  confidante  therein  being  the  highly  honorable 
dame  Quintahona,  whence  came  that  ballad  so  well 
known  and  widely  spread  in  our  Spain  — 

O never  surely  was  there  knight 
So  served  by  hand  of  dame. 

As  served  was  he  Sir  Lancelot  hight 
When  he  from  Britain  came  — * 


* The  ballad  {Cancio7iero  de  Rornaitces,  Antwerp,  s a.,  and  Duran,  No. 
352)  is  that  parodied  by  Don  Quixote  in  chap.  ii.  “ Britain  ” is,  of  course, 
Brittany;  Lancelot’s  father.  King  Ban,  was  a Breton.  The  idea  of  the  “ go- 


268 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


with  all  the  sweet  and  delectable  course  of  his 
achievements  in  love  and  war.  Handed  down  from 
that  time,  then,  this  order  of  chivalry  went  on  extend- 
ing and  spreading  itself  over  many  and  various  parts 
of  the  world ; and  in  it,  famous  and  renowned  for 
their  deeds,  were  the  mighty  Amadis  of  Gaul  with  all 
his  sons  and  descendants  to  the  fifth  generation,  and 
the  valiant  Felixmarte  of  Hircania,  and  the  never 
sufficiently  praised  Tirante  el  Blanco,  and  in  our  own 
days  almost  we  have  seen  and  heard  and  talked  with 
the  invincible  knight  Don  Belianis  of  Greece.  This, 
then,  sirs,  is  to  be  a knight-errant,  and  what  I have 
spoken  of  is  the  order  of  his  chivalry,  of  which,  as  I 
have  already  said,  I,  though  a sinner,  have  made  pro- 
fession, and  what  the  aforesaid  knights  professed  that 
same  do  I profess,  and  so  I go  through  these  soli- 
tudes and  wilds  seeking  adventures,  resolved  in  soul 
to  oppose  my  arm  and  person  to  the  most  perilous 
that  fortune  may  offer  me  in  aid  of  the  weak  and 
needy.” 

By  these  words  of  his  the  travellers  were  able  to 
satisfy  themselves  of  Don  Quixote’s  being  out  of  his 
senses  and  of  the  form  of  madness  that  overmastered 
him,  at  which  they  felt  the  same  astonishment  that  all 
felt  on  first  becoming  acquainted  with  it ; and  Vivaldo, 
who  was  a person  of  great  shrewdness  and  of  a lively 

between”  is  derived  from  an  Italian  source,  but  the  name  Qiiintanona  is 
Spanish;  it  means  simply  an  old  woman,  one  who  has  a quintal,  or  hundred- 
weight, of  years  on  her  back.  The  transformation  of  Arthur  into  a raven  is 
also  a Southern  addition  to  the  Arthurian  legend.  Cervantes  ridicules  the 
story  in  Persiles  and  Sigisvmnda. 


CHAPTER  XIIL 


269 


tempercament,  in  order  to  beguile  the  short  journey 
which  they  said  was  required  to  reach  the  mountain, 
the  scene  of  the  burial,  sought  to  give  him  an  oppor- 
tunity of  going  on  with  his  absurdities.  So  he  said 
to  him,  “ It  seems  to  me,  Sehor  Knight-errant,  that 
your  worship  has  made  choice  of  one  of  the  most 
austere  professions  in  the  world,  and  I imagine  even 
that  of  the  Carthusian  monks  is  not  so  austere.” 

“ As  austere  it  may  perhaps  be,”  replied  our  Don 
Quixote,  “ but  so  necessary  for  the  world  I am  very 
much  inclined  to  doubt.  For,  if  the  truth  is  to 
be  told,  the  soldier  who  executes  what  his  captain 
orders  does  no  less  than  the  captain  himself  who 
gives  the  order.  My  meaning  is,  that  churchmen  in 
peace  and  quiet  pray  to  Heaven  for  the  welfare  of  the 
world,  but  we  soldiers  and  knights  carry  into  effect 
what  they  pray  for,  defending  it  with  the  might  of  our 
arms  and  the  edge  of  our  swords,  not  under  shelter 
but  in  the  open  air,  a target  for  the  intolerable  rays 
of  the  sun  in  summer  and  the  piercing  frosts  of 
winter.  Thus  are  we  God’s  ministers  on  earth  and 
the  arms  by  which  his  justice  is  done  therein.  And 
as  the  business  of  war  and  all  that  relates  and  belongs 
to  it  cannot  be  conducted  without  exceeding  great 
sweat,  toil,  and  exertion,  it  follows  that  those  who 
make  it  their  profession  have  undoubtedly  more  labor 
than  those  who  in  tranquil  peace  and  quiet  are  en- 
gaged in  praying  to  God  to  help  the  weak.  I do  not 
mean  to  say,  nor  does  it  enter  into  my  thoughts,  that 
the  knight-errant’s  calling  is  as  good  as  that  of  the 


DO  AT  QUIXOTE. 


270 

monk  in  his  cell ; I would  merely  infer  from  what  I 
endure  myself  that  it  is  beyond  a doubt  a more 
laborious  and  a more  belabored  one,  a hungrier  and 
thirstier,  a wretcheder,  raggeder,  and  lousier ; for 
there  is  no  reason  to  doubt  that  the  knights-errant  of 
yore  endured  much  hardship  in  the  course  of  their 
lives.  And  if  some  of  them  by  the  might  of  their 
arms  did  rise  to  be  emperors,  in  faith  it  cost  them 
dear  in  the  matter  of  blood  and  sweat ; and  if  those 
who  attained  to  that  rank  had  not  had  magicians 
and  sages  to  help  them  they  would  have  been  com- 
pletely balked  in  their  ambition  and  disappointed  in 
their  hopes.” 

‘‘That  is  my  own  opinion,”  replied  the  traveller; 
“ but  one  thing  among  many  others  seems  to  me  very 
wrong  in  knights-errant,  and  that  is  that  when  they 
find  themselves  about  to  engage  in  some  mighty  and 
perilous  adventure  in  which  there  is  manifest  danger 
of  losing  their  lives,  they  never  at  the  moment  of 
engaging  in  it  think  of  commending  themselves  to 
God,  as  is  the  duty  of  every  good  Christian  in  like 
peril ; instead  of  which  they  commend  themselves  to 
their  ladies  with  as  much  heartiness  and  devotion  as 
if  these  were  their  gods,  a thing  which  seems  to  me  to 
savor  somewhat  of  heathenism.” 

“ Sir,”  answered  Don  Quixote,  “ that  cannot  be  on 
any  account  omitted,  and  the  knight-errant  would  be 
disgraced  who  acted  otherwise  : for  it  is  usual  and 
customary  in  knight-errantry  that  the  knight-errant 
who  on  engaging  in  any  great  feat  of  arms  has  his 


CHAPTER  Xril. 


271 


lady  before  him,  should  turn  his  eyes  towards  her 
softly  and  lovingly,  as  though  with  them  entreating 
her  to  favor  and  protect  him  in  the  hazardous  ven- 
ture he  is  about  to  undertake,  and  even  though  no  one 
hear  him,  he  is  bound  to  say  certain  words  between 
his  teeth,  commending  himself  to  her  with  all  his 
heart,  and  of  this  we  have  innumerable  instances  in 
the  histories.  Nor  is  it  to  be  supposed  from  this 
that  they  are  to  omit  commending  themselves  to  God, 
for  there  will  be  time  and  opportunity  for  doing  so 
while  they  are  engaged  in  their  task.” 

“ For  all  that,”  answered  the  traveller,  “ I feel  some 
doubt  still,  because  often  I have  read  how  words  will 
arise  between  two  knights-errant,  and  from  one  thing 
to  another  it  comes  about  that  their  anger  kindles  and 
they  wheel  their  horses  round  and  take  a good  stretch 
of  field,  and  then  without  any  more  ado  at  the  top  of 
their  speed  they  come  to  the  charge,  and  in  mid- 
career they  commend  themselves  to  their  ladies  ; and 
what  commonly  comes  of  the  encounter  is  that  one 
falls  over  the  haunches  of  his  horse  pierced  through 
and  through  by  his  antagonist’s  lance,  and  as  for  the 
other,  it  is  only  by  holding  on  to  the  mane  of  his 
horse  that  he  can  help  falling  to  the  ground  ; but  I 
know  not  how  the  dead  man  had  time  to  commend 
himself  to  God  in  the  course  of  such  rapid  work  as 
this  ; it  would  have  been  better  if  those  words  which 
he  spent  in  commending  himself  to  his  lady  in  the 
midst  of  his  career  had  been  devoted  to  his  duty  and 
obligation  as  a Ghristian.  Moreover,  it  is  my  belief 


2J2 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


that  all  knights-errant  have  not  ladies  to  commend 
themselves  to,  for  they  are  not  all  in  love.” 

‘‘That  is  impossible,”  said  Don  Quixote  : “I  say  it 
is  impossible  that  there  could  be  a knight-errant  with- 
out a lady,  because  to  such  it  is  as  natural  and  proper 
to  be  in  love  as  to  the  heavens  to  have  stars  : Aiost 
certainly  no  history  has  been  seen  in  which  there  is  to 
be  found  a knight-errant  without  an  amour,  and  for 
the  simple  reason  that  without  one  he  would  be  held 
no  legitimate  knight  but  a bastard,  and  one  who  had 
gained  entrance  into  the  stronghold  of  the  said  knight- 
hood, not  by  the  door,  but  over  the  wall  like  a thief 
and  a robber.” 

“ Nevertheless,”  said  the  traveller,  “ if  I remember 
rightly,  I think  I have  read  that  Don  Galaor,  the 
brother  of  the  valiant  Amadis  of  Gaul,  never  had  any 
special  lady  to  whom  he  might  commend  himself,  and 
yet  he  was  not  the  less  esteemed,  and  was  a very 
stout  and  famous  knight.” 

To  which  our  Don  Quixote  made  answer,  “ Sir,  one 
solitary  swallow  does  not  make  summer ; * moreover, 
I know  that  that  knight  was  in  secret  very  deeply  in 
love ; besides  which,  that  way  of  falling  in  love  with 
all  that  took  his  fancy  was  a natural  propensity  which 
he  could  not  control.  But,  in  short,  it  is  very  mani- 
fest that  he  had  one  alone  whom  he  made  mistress 
of  his  will,  to  whom  he  commended  himself  very 
frequently  and  very  secretly,  for  he  prided  himself 
on  being  a reticent  knight.” 


Prov.  io6. 


CHAPTER  XI  11. 


273 


“Then  if  it  be  essential  that  every  knight-errant 
should  be  in  love,”  said  the  traveller,  “ it  may  be 
fairly  supposed  that  your  worship  is  so,  as  you  are  of 
the  order ; and  if  you  do  not  pride  yourself  on  being 
as  reticent  as  Don  Galaor,  I entreat  you  as  earnestly 
as  I can,  in  the  name  of  all  this  company  and  in  my 
own,  to  inform  us  of  the  name,  country,  rank,  and 
beauty  of  your  lady,  for  she  will  esteem  herself  fortu- 
nate if  all  the  world  knows  that  she  is  loved  and 
served  by  such  a knight  as  your  worship  seems  to  be.” 

At  this  Don  Quixote  heaved  a deep  sigh,  and  said, 
“ I cannot  say  positively  whether  my  sweet  enemy  is 
pleased  or  not  that  the  world  should  know  I serve 
her;  I can  only  say  in  answer  to  what  has  been  so 
courteously  asked  of  me,  that  her  name  is  Dulcinea, 
her  country  El  Toboso,  a village  of  La  Mancha,  her 
rank  must  be  at  least  that  of  a princess,  since  she  is 
my  queen  and  lady,  and  her  beauty  superhuman, 
since  all  the  impossible  and  fanciful  attributes  of 
beauty  which  the  poets  apply  to  their  ladies  are  veri- 
fied in  her ; for  her  hairs  are  gold,  her  forehead 
Elysian  fields,  her  eyebrows  rainbows,  her  eyes  suns, 
her  cheeks  roses,  her  lips  coral,  her  teeth  pearls,  her 
neck  alabaster,  her  bosom  marble,  her  hands  ivory, 
her  fairness  snow,  and  what  modesty  conceals  from 
sight  such,  I think  and  imagine,  as  rational  reflection 
can  only  extol,  not  compare.” 

“ We  should  like  to  know  her  lineage,  race,  and 
ancestry,”  said  Vivaldo. 

To  which  Don  Quixote  replied,  ^^She  is  not  of 


274 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


the  ancient  Roman  Curtii,  Caii,  or  Scipios,  nor  of  the 
modern  Colonnas  or  Orsini,  nor  of  the  Moncadas 
or  Requesenes  of  Catalonia,  nor  yet  of  the  Rebellas  or 
Villanovas  of  Valencia;  Palafoxes,  Nuzas,  Rocabertis, 
Corellas,  Lunas,  Alagones,  Urreas,  Foces,  or  Gurreas  of 
Aragon ; Cerdas,  Manriques,  Mendozas,  or  Guzmans 
of  Castile ; Alencastros,  Pallas,  or  Meneses  of  Portu- 
gal ; but  she  is  of  those  of  El  Toboso  of  La  Mancha, 
a lineage  that,  though  modern,  may  furnish  a source 
of  gentle  blood  for  the  most  illustrious  families  of  the 
ages  that  are  to  come,  and  this  let  none  dispute  with 
me  save  on  the  condition  that  Zerbino  placed  at  the 
foot  of  the  trophy  of  Orlando’s  arms,  saying, 

These  let  none  move 

Who  dareth  not  his  might  with  Roland  prove.”  * 

‘‘Although  mine  is  of  the  Cachopins  of  Laredo,”  ^ 
said  the  traveller,  “ I will  not  venture  to  compare  it 
with  that  of  El  Toboso  of  La  Mancha,  though,  to  tell 
the  truth,  no  such  surname  has  until  now  ever  reached 
my  ears.” 

“ What ! ” said  Don  Quixote,  “ has  that  never 
reached  them?  ” 


* “ Nessum  la  mova 

Che  star  non  possa  con  Orlando  prova.” 

Orlando  Furioso,  xxiv.  57. 

But  Zerblno’s  inscription  was  simply  “ Armatura  d’Orlando  Paladino,”  and 
the  quotation  is  merely  the  poet’s  gloss  upon  it. 

2 Cachopin,  or  Gachupin,  a word  of  Indian  origin,  and  applied  to  .Span- 
iards living  in  or  returned  from  the  Indies.  Laredo  is  a seaport  close  to 
Santander,  where  also  the  Cachopins  were  numerous,  as  appears  from  a quaint 
inscription  on  one  of  the  houses  quoted  by  Bowie. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 


275 


The  rest  of  the  party  went  along  listening  with  great 
attention  to  the  conversation  of  the  pair,  and  even  the 
very  goatherds  and  shepherds  perceived  how  exceed- 
ingly out  of  his  wits  our  Don  Quixote  was.  Sancho 
Panza  alone  thought  that  what  his  master  said  was 
the  truth,  knowing  who  he  was  and  having  known 
him  from  his  birth ; and  all  that  he  felt  any  difficulty 
in  believing  was  that  about  the  fair  Dulcinea  del 
Toboso,  because  neither  any  such  name  nor  any  such 
princess  had  ever  come  to  his  knowledge  though  he 
lived  so  close  to  El  Toboso.*  They  were  going  along 
conversing  in  this  way,  when  they  saw  descending  a 
gap  between  two  high  mountains  ^ some  twenty  shep- 
herds, all  clad  in  sheepskins  of  black  wool,  and 
crowned  with  garlands  which,  as  afterwards  appeared, 
were,  some  of  them  of  yew,  some  of  cypress.  Six  of 
the  number  were  carrying  a bier  covered  with  a great 
variety  of  flowers  and  branches,  on  seeing  which  one 
of  the  goatherds  said,  ‘‘Those  who  come  there  are 
the  bearers  of  Chrysostom’s  body,  and  the  foot  of  that 
mountain  is  the  place  where  he  ordered  them  to  bury 
him.”  They  therefore  made  haste  to  reach  the  spot, 
and  did  so  by  the  time  those  who  came  had  laid  the 
bier  upon  the  ground,  and  four  of  them  with  sharp 


* Hartzenbusch  in  his  anxiety  for  precision  alters  this,  as  he  considers 
that  El  Toboso,  being  about  seven  leagues  from  Argamasilla,  cannot  be  prop- 
erly described  as  “ near”  it. 

2 It  is  hardly  necessary  to  observe  that  these  high  mountains  in  the 
neighborhood  of  Argamasilla  are  purely  imaginary.  The  nearest  that  could 
by  any  stretch  of  courtesy  be  called  high  would  be  those  of  the  Toledo  Sierra 
some  sixty  or  seventy  miles  distant. 


276 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


pickaxes  were  digging  a grave  by  the  side  of  a hard 
rock.  They  greeted  each  other  courteously,  and  then 
Don  Quixote  and  those  who  accompanied  him  turned 
to  examine  the  bier,  and  on  it,  covered  with  flowers, 
they  saw  a dead  body  in  the  dress  of  a shepherd,  to 
all  appearance  of  one  thirty  years  of  age,  and  showing 
even  in  death  that  in  life  he  had  been  of  comely  fea- 
tures and  gallant  bearing.  Around  him  on  the  bier 
itself  were  laid  some  books,  and  several  papers  open 
and  folded  ; and  those  who  were  looking  on  as  well  as 
those  who  were  opening  the  grave  and  all  the  others 
who  were  there  preserved  a strange  silence,  until  one  of 
those  who  had  borne  the  body  said  to  another,  “ Ob- 
serve carefully,  Ambrosio,  if  this  is  the  place  Chrysos- 
tom spoke  of,  since  you  are  anxious  that  what  he 
directed  in  his  will  should  be  so  strictly  complied  with.” 

This  is  the  place,”  answered  Ambrosio,  “ for  in  it 
many  a time  did  my  poor  friend  tell  me  the  story  of 
his  hard  fortune.  Here  it  was,  he  told  me,  that  he 
saw  for  the  first  time  that  mortal  enemy  of  the  human 
race,  and  here,  too,  for  the  first  time  he  declared  to 
her  his  passion,  as  honorable  as  it  was  devoted,  and 
here  it  was  that  at  last  Marcela  ended  by  scorning 
and  rejecting  him  so  as  to  bring  the  tragedy  of  his 
wretched  life  to  a close ; here,  in  memory  of  misfor- 
tunes so  great,  he  desired  to  be  laid  in  the  bowels  of 
eternal  oblivion.”  ' Then  turning  to  Don  Quixote 


* This  is  one  of  the  passages  selected  by  Biedermann  as  specimens  of 
blunders  made  by  Cervantes,  but  by  cn  Dtevtoria  Cervantes  does  not  mean 
to  “ commemorate,”  but  rather  to  “ mark  ” or  “ signalize.” 


g’ 


CHAPTER  XIII. 


277 

and  the  travellers  he  went  on  to  say,  “ That  body,  sirs, 
on  which  you  are  looking  with  compassionate  eyes, 
was  the  abode  of  a soul  on  which  Heaven  bestowed 
a vast  share  of  its  riches.  That  is  the  body  of 
Chrysostom,  who  was  unrivalled  in  wit,  unequalled  in 
courtesy,  unapproached  in  gentle  bearing,  a phoenix 
in  friendship,  generous  without  limit,  grave  without 
arrogance,  gay  without  vulgarity,  and,  in  short,  first  in 
all  that  constitutes  goodness  and  second  to  none  in  all 
that  makes  up  misfortune.  He  loved  deeply,  he  was 
hated  ; he  adored,  he  was  scorned  ; he  wooed  a wild 
beast,  he  pleaded  with  marble,  he  pursued  the  wind, 
he  cried  to  the  wilderness,  he  served  ingratitude,  and 
for  reward  was  made  the  prey  of  death  in  the  mid- 
course of  life,  cut  short  by  a shepherdess  whom  he 
sought  to  immortalize  in  the  memory  of  mankind,  as 
these  papers  which  you  see  could  fully  prove,  had  he 
not  commanded  me  to  consign  them  to  the  fire  after 
having  consigned  his  body  to  the  earth.” 

“You  would  deal  with  them  more  harshly  and 
cruelly  than  their  owner  himself,”  said  Vivaldo,  “for 
it  is  neither  right  nor  proper  to  do  the  will  of  one 
who  enjoins  what  is  wholly  unreasonable ; it  would  not 
have  been  reasonable  in  Augustus  Caesar  had  he  per- 
mitted the  directions  left  by  the  divine  Mantuan  in 
his  will  to  be  carried  into  effect.  So  that,  Senor 
Ambrosio,  while  you  consign  your  friend’s  body  to 
the  earth,  you  should  not  consign  his  writings  to  ob- 
livion, for  if  he  gave  the  order  in  bitterness  of  heart, 
it  is  not  right  that  you  should  irrationally  obey  it. 


2/8 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


On  the  contrary,  by  granting  life  to  those  papers, 
let  the  cruelty  of  Marcela  live  forever,  to  serve  as  a 
warning  in  ages  to  come  to  all  men  to  shun  and  avoid 
falling  into  like  danger : for  I and  all  of  us  who  have 
come  here  know  already  the  story  of  this  your  love- 
stricken  and  heart-broken  friend,  and  we  know,  too, 
your  friendship,  and  the  cause  of  his  death,  and  the 
directions  he  gave  at  the  close  of  his  life ; from  which 
sad  story  may  be  gathered  how  great  was  the  cruelty 
of  Marcela,  the  love  of  Chrysostom,  and  the  loyalty 
of  your  friendship,  together  with  the  end  awaiting 
those  who  pursue  rashly  the  path  that  insane  passion 
opens  to  their  eyes.  Last  night  we  learned  the  death 
of  Chrysostom  and  that  he  was  to  be  buried  here,  and 
out  of  curiosity  and  pity  we  left  our  direct  road  and 
resolved  to  come  and  see  with  our  eyes  that  which 
when  heard  of  had  so  moved  our  compassion,  and  in 
consideration  of  that  compassion  and  our  desire  to 
prove  it  if  we  might  by  condolence,  we  beg  of  you, 
excellent  Ambrosio,  or  at  least  I on  my  own  account 
entreat  you,  that  instead  of  burning  those  papers  you 
allow  me  to  carry  away  some  of  them.” 

And  without  waiting  for  the  shepherd’s  answer,  he 
stretched  out  his  hand  and  took  up  some  of  those 
that  were  nearest  to  him ; seeing  which  Ambrosio 
said,  ‘‘  Out  of  courtesy,  sehor,  I will  grant  your 
request  as  to  those  you  have  taken,  but  it  is 
idle  to  expect  me  to  abstain  from  burning  the  re- 
mainder.” 

Vivaldo,  who  was  eager  to  see  what  the  papers 


CHAPTER  XIII. 


279 


contained,  opened  one  of  them  at  once,  and  saw  that 
its  title  was  “ Lay  of  Despair.” 

Ambrosio  hearing  it  said,  “That  is  the  last  paper 
the  unhappy  man  wrote ; and  that  you  may  see,  senor, 
to  what  an  end  his  misfortunes  brought  him,  read  it 
so  that  you  may  be  heard,  for  you  will  have  time 
enough  for  that  while  we  are  waiting  for  the  grave  to 
be  dug.” 

“ I will  do  so  very  willingly,”  said  Vivaldo  \ and  as 
all  the  bystanders  were  equally  eager  they  gathered 
round  him,  and  he,  reading  in  a loud  voice,  found 
that  it  ran  as  follows. 


28o 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

WHEREIN  ARE  INSERTED  THE  DESPAIRING  VERSES  OF 
THE  DEAD  SHEPHERD,  TOGETHER  WITH  OTHER  IN- 
CIDENTS NOT  LOOKED  FOR.* 

THE  LAY  OF  CHRYSOSTOM.* 

Since  thou  dost  in  th)^  cruelty  desire 
The  ruthless  rigor  of  thy  tyranny 
From  tongue  to  tongue,  from  land  to  land  proclaimed, 
The  very  Hell  will  I constrain  to  lend 
This  stricken  breast  of  mine  deep  notes  of  woe 
To  serve  my  need  of  fitting  utterance. 

And  as  I strive  to  body  forth  the  tale 
Of  all  I suffer,  all  that  thou  hast  done. 

Forth  shall  the  dread  voice  roll,  and  bear  along 


* There  is  here  a play  upon  the  words  desesperados,  “ despairing,”  and 
no  esperados,  “ not  looked  for;  ” many  of  the  headings  to  the  chapters  con- 
tain some  verbal  conceit  of  this  kind. 

2 The  “ Lay  of  Chrysostom”  must  not  be  judged  of  by  a translation. 
The  original  is  not  so  much  a piece  of  poetiy,  as  a fantasia  in  rhyme  and 
an  experiment  in  versification.  Whether  Italian  or  Spanish,  the  canzone  or 
cancion  is  from  its  style  hard  to  translate  into  our  matter-of-fact  English,  but 
the  difficulty  here  is  increased  by  the  peculiarly  complex  stanza  and  intricate 
system  of  interlaced  rhymes  which  Cervantes  adopted,  as  well  as  by  the 
inimitable  rhythm  and  harmony  of  the  lines.  One  peculiarity,  borrowed,  it 
may  be,  from  Garcilaso,  is  that  of  a line  with  a medial  rhyme  to  the  termina- 
tion of  the  preceding  line,  which  produces  a cadence  that  falls  upon  the  ear 
like  that  of  waves  upon  a distant  shore.  It  might  be  possible  to  imitate  the 
arrangement  of  rhymes,  but  to  imitate  the  effect  or  reproduce  the  melody  in 
our  consonantal  language  would  be  an  utter  impossibility. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 


281 


Shreds  from  my  vitals  torn  for  greater  pain. 

Then  listen,  not  to  dulcet  harmony, 

But  to  a discord  wrung  by  mad  despair 
Out  of  this  bosom’s  depths  of  bitterness, 

To  ease  my  heart  and  plant  a sting  in  thine. 

The  lion’s  roar,  the  fierce  wolf’s  savage  howl, 

The  horrid  hissing  of  the  scaly  snake. 

The  awesome  cries  of  monsters  yet  unnamed. 

The  crow’s  ill-boding  croak,  the  hollow  moan 
Of  wild  winds  wrestling  with  the  restless  sea. 

The  wrathful  bellow  of  the  vanquished  bull, 

The  plaintive  sobbing  of  the  widowed  dove,* 

The  envied  owl’s  sad  note, 2 the  wail  of  woe 
That  rises  from  the  dreary  choir  of  Hell, 
Commingled  in  one  sound,  confusing  sense. 

Let  all  these  come  to  aid  my  soul’s  complaint, 

For  pain  like  mine  demands  new  modes  of  song. 

No  echoes  of  that  discord  shall  be  heard 
Where  Father  Tagus  rolls,  or  on  the  banks 
Of  olive-bordered  Betis  ; 3 to  the  rocks 
Or  in  deep  caverns  shall  my  plaint  be  told, 

And  by  a lifeless  tongue  in  living  words ; 

Or  in  dark  valleys  or  on  lonely  shores. 

Where  neither  foot  of  man  nor  sunbeam  falls; 

Or  in  among  the  poison-breathing  swarms 

* “ And  the  hoarse  sobbing  of  the  widowed  dove.” 

Drumjnoiid  of  Hawthortiden. 

2 The  owl  was  the  only  bird  that  witnessed  the  Crucifixion,  and  it  became 
for  that  reason  an  object  of  envy  to  the  other  birds,  so  much  so  that  it  cannot 
appear  in  the  daytime  without  being  persecuted. 

3 Betis  — i.e.  the  Guadalquivir. 


0 


282 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


Of  monsters  nourished  by  the  sluggish  Nile. 

For,  though  it  be  to  solitudes  remote 
The  hoarse  vague  echoes  of  my  sorrows  sound 
Thy  matchless  cruelty,  my  dismal  fate 
Shall  carry  them  to  all  the  spacious  world. 

Disdain  hath  power  to  kill,  and  patience  dies 
Slain  by  suspicion,  be  it  false  or  true  ; 

And  deadly  is  the  force  of  jealousy : 

Long  absence  makes  of  life  a dreary  void; 

No  hope  of  happiness  can  give  repose 
To  him  that  ever  fears  to  be  forgot; 

And  death,  inevitable,  waits  in  all. 

But  I,  by  some  strange  miracle,  live  on 
A prey  to  absence,  jealousy,  disdain  ; 

Racked  by  suspicion  as  by  certainty; 

Forgotten,  left  to  feed  my  flame  alone. 

And  while  I suffer  thus,  there  comes  no  ray 
Of  hope  to  gladden  me  athwart  the  gloom ; 

Nor  do  I look  for  it  in  my  despair; 

But  rather  clinging  to  a cureless  woe. 

All  hope  do  I abjure  for  evermore. 

Can  there  be  hope  where  fear  is  ? Were  it  well. 
When  far  more  certain  are  the  grounds  of  fear.? 
Ought  I to  shut  mine  eyes  to  jealous)^ 

If  through  a thousand  heart-wounds  it  appears? 
Who  would  not  give  free  access  to  distrust. 

Seeing  disdain  unveiled,  and  — bitter  change  ! — 
All  his  suspicions  turned  to  certainties. 

And  the  fair  truth  transformed  into  a lie? 

Oh,  thou  fierce  tyrant  of  the  realms  of  love, 

Oh,  Jealousy  ! put  chains  upon  these  hands, 


CHAPTER  XIV. 


283 


And  bind  me  with  thy  strongest  cord,  Disdain. 

But,  woe  is  me!  triumphant  over  all, 

My  sufferings  drown  the  memory  of  you. 

And  now  I die,  and  since  there  is  no  hope 
Of  happiness  for  me  in  life  or  death, 

Still  to  my  fantasy  I’ll  fondly  cling. 

I’ll  say  that  he  is  wise  who  loveth  well. 

And  that  the  soul  most  free  is  that  most  bound 
In  thraldom  to  the  ancient  tyrant  Love. 

I’ll  say  that  she  who  is  mine  enemy 
In  that  fair  body  hath  as  fair  a mind. 

And  that  her  coldness  is  but  my  desert. 

And  that  by  virtue  of  the  pain  he  sends 
Love  rules  his  kingdom  with  a gentle  sway. 

Thus,  self-deluding,  and  in  bondage  sore. 

And  wearing  out  the  wretched  shred  of  life 
To  which  I am  reduced  by  her  disdain. 

I’ll  give  this  soul  and  body  to  the  winds. 

All  hopeless  of  a crown  of  bliss  in  store. 

Thou  whose  injustice  hath  supplied  the  cause 
That  makes  me  quit  the  weary  life  I loathe. 

As  by  this  wounded  bosom  thou  canst  see 
How  willingly  thy  victim  I become. 

Let  not  my  death,  if  haply  worth  a tear. 

Cloud  the  clear  heaven  that  dwells  in  thy  bright  eyes ; 

I would  not  have  thee  expiate  in  aught 

The  crime  of  having  made  my  heart  thy  prey; 

But  rather  let  thy  laughter  gayly  ring 
And  prove  my  death  to  be  thy  festival. 

Fool  that  I am  to  bid  thee!  well  I know 
Thy  glory  gains  by  my  untimely  end. 


284 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


And  now  it  is  the  time;  from  Hell’s  abyss 
Come  thirsting  Tantalus,  come  Sisyphus 
Heaving  the  cruel  stone,  come  Tityus 
With  vulture,  and  with  wheel  Ixion  come, 

And  come  the  sisters  of  the  ceaseless  toil; 

And  all  into  this  breast  transfer  their  pains, 

And  (if  such  tribute  to  despair  be  due) 

Chant  in  their  deepest  tones  a doleful  dirge 
Over  a corse  unworthy  of  a shroud. 

Let  the  three-headed  guardian  of  the  gate, 

And  all  the  monstrous  progeny  of  hell. 

The  doleful  concert  join  : a lover  dead 
Methinks  can  have  no  fitter  obsequies. 

Lay  of  despair,  grieve  not  when  thou  art  gone 
Forth  from  this  sorrowing  heart : my  misery 
Brings  fortune  to  the  cause  that  gave  thee  birth; 
Then  banish  sadness  even  in  the  tomb. 

The  “ Lay  of  Chrysostom  ” met  with  the  approba- 
tion of  the  listeners,  though  the  reader  said  it  did  not 
seem  to  him  to  agree  with  what  he  had  heard  of 
Marcela’s  reserve  and  propriety,  for  Chrysostom  com- 
plained in  it  of  jealousy,  suspicion,  and  absence,  all  to 
the  prejudice  of  the  good  name  and  fame  of  Marcela ; 
to  which  Ambrosio  replied  as  one  who  knew  well  his 
friend’s  most  secret  thoughts,  “ Sehor,  to  remove  that 
doubt  I should  tell  you  that  when  the  unhap|)y  man 
wrote  this  lay  he  was  away  from  Marcela,  from  vvhom 
he  had  voluntarily  separated  himself,  to  try  if  absence 
would  act  with  him  as  it  is  wont ; and  as  every  thing 
distresses  and  every  fear  haunts  the  banished  lover,  so 


CHAPTER  XIV. 


285 


imaginary  jealousies  and  suspicions,  dreaded  as  if  they 
were  true,  tormented  Chrysostom ; and  thus  the  truth 
of  what  report  declares  of  the  virtue  of  Marcela 
remains  unshaken,  and  with  her  envy  itself  should  not 
and  cannot  find  any  fault  save  that  of  being  cruel, 
somewhat  haughty,  and  very  scornful.” 

“ That  is  true,”  said  Vivaldo  ; and  as  he  was  about 
to  read  another  paper  of  those  he  had  preserved  from 
the  fire,  he  was  stopped  by  a marvellous  vision  (for 
such  it  seemed)  that  unexpectedly  presented  itself  to 
their  eyes  ; for  on  the  summit  of  the  rock  where  they 
were  digging  the  grave  there  appeared  the  shepherdess 
Marcela,  so  beautiful  that  her  beauty  exceeded  its 
reputation.  Those  who  had  never  till  then  beheld  her 
gazed  upon  her  in  wonder  and  silence,  and  those  who 
were  accustomed  to  see  her  were  not  less  amazed  than 
those  who  had  never  seen  her  before.  But  the  instant 
Ambrosio  saw  her  he  addressed  her,  with  manifest 
indignation,  “Art  thou  come,  cruel  basilisk  of  these 
mountains,  to  see  if  haply  in  thy  presence  blood  will 
flow  from  the  wounds  of  this  wretched  being  thy 
cruelty  has  robbed  of  life ; or  is  it  to  exult  over  the 
cruel  work  of  thy  humors  that  thou  art  come  ; or  like 
another  pitiless  Nero  to  look  down  from  that  height 
upon  the  ruin  of  thy  Rome  in  ashes ; or  in  thy  arro- 
gance to  trample  on  this  ill-fated  corpse,  as  the  un- 
grateful daughter  trampled  on  her  father  Tarquin’s  ? ' 


* It  was  the  corpse  of  Servius  Tullius  that  was  so  treated  by  his  daughter 
Tullia,  the  wife  of  Tarquin,  but  Cervantes  followed  an  old  ballad  in  the  Flor 
de  Enamorados,  which  has,  Tullia  hija  de  Tarquino. 


286 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


Tell  us  quickly  for  what  thou  art  come,  or  what  it  is 
thou  wouldst  have,  for,  as  I know  the  thoughts  of 
Chrysostom  never  failed  to  obey  thee  in  life,  I will 
make  all  these  who  call  themselves  his  friends  obey 
thee,  though  he  be  dead.” 

“ I come  not,  Ambrosio,  for  any  of  the  purposes 
thou  hast  named,”  replied  Marcela,  “but  to  defend 
myself  and  to  prove  how  unreasonable  are  all  those 
who  blame  me  for  their  sorrow  and  for  Chrysostom’s 
death ; and  therefore  I ask  all  of  you  that  are  here  to 
give  me  your  attention,  for  it  will  not  take  much  time 
or  many  words  to  bring  the  truth  home  to  persons  of 
sense.  Heaven  has  made  me,  so  you  say,  beautiful, 
and  so  much  so  that  in  spite  of  yourselves  my  beauty 
leads  you  to  love  me ; and  for  the  love  you  show  me 
you  say,  and  even  urge,  that  I am  bound  to  love  you. 
By  that  natural  understanding  which  God  has  given 
me  I know  that  every  thing  beautiful  attracts  love,  but 
I cannot  see  how,  by  reason  of  being  loved,  that  which 
is  loved  for  its  beauty  is  bound  to  love  that  which  loves 
it ; besides,  it  may  happen  that  the  lov^er  of  that  which 
is  beautiful  may  be  ugly,  and  ugliness  being  detestable, 
it  is  very  absurd  to  say,  ‘ I love  thee  because  thou  art 
beautiful,  thou  must  love  me  though  I be  ugly.’  But 
supposing  the  beauty  equal  on  both  sides,  it  does  not 
follow  that  the  inclinations  must  be  therefore  alike,  for 
it  is  not  every  beauty  that  excites  love,  some  but  pleas- 
ing the  eye  without  winning  the  affection  ; and  if  every 
sort  of  beauty  excited  love  and  won  the  heart,  the  will 
would  wander  vaguely  to  and  fro  unable  to  make 


CHAPTER  XIV. 


287 


choice  of  any ; for  as  there  is  an  infinity  of  beautiful 
objects  there  must  be  an  infinity  of  inclinations,  and 
true  love,  I have  heard  it  said,  is  indivisible,  and  must 
be  voluntary  and  not  compelled.  If  this  be  so,  as  I 
believe  it  to  be,  why  do  you  desire  me  to  bend  my  will 
by  force,  for  no  other  reason  but  that  you  say  you  love 
me?  Nay  — tell  me — had  Heaven  made  me  ugly,  as 
it  has  made  me  beautiful,  could  I with  justice  com- 
plain of  you  for  not  loving  me  ? Moreover,  you  must 
remember  that  the  beauty  I possess  was  no  choice  of 
mine,  for,  be  it  what  it  may.  Heaven  of  its  bounty 
gave  it  me  without  my  asking  or  choosing  it ; and  as 
the  viper,  though  it  kills  with  it,  does  not  deserve  to 
be  blamed  for  the  poison  it  carries,  as  it  is  a gift  of 
nature,  neither  do  I deserve  reproach  for  being  beauti- 
ful ; for  beauty  in  a modest  woman  is  like  fire  at  a dis- 
tance or  a sharp  sword ; the  one  does  not  burn,  the 
other  does  not  cut,  those  who  do  not  come  too  near. 
Honor  and  virtue  are  the  ornaments  of  the  mind, 
without  which  the  body,  though  it  be  so,  has  no  right 
to  pass  for  beautiful ; but  if  modesty  is  one  of  the 
virtues  that  specially  lend  a grace  and  charm  to  mind 
and  body,  why  should  she  who  is  loved  for  her  beauty 
part  with  it  to  gratify  one  who  for  his  pleasure  alone 
strives  with  all  his  might  and  energy  to  rob  her  of  it  ? 
I was  born  free,  and  that  I might  live  in  freedom  I 
chose  the  solitude  of  the  fields ; in  the  trees  of  the 
mountains  I find  society,  the  clear  waters  of  the  brooks 
are  my  mirrors,  and  to  the  trees  and  waters  I make 
known  my  thoughts  and  charms.  I am  a fire  afar  off, 


288 


DON  QUIXOTE, 


a sword  laid  aside.  Those  whom  I have  inspired  with 
love  by  letting  them  see  me,  I have  by  words  un- 
deceived, and  if  their  longings  live  on  hope  — and  I 
have  given  none  to  Chrysostom  or  to  any  other  — it 
cannot  justly  be  said  that  the  death  of  any  is  my 
doing,  for  it  was  rather  his  own  obstinacy  than  my 
cruelty  that  killed  him  ; and  if  it  be  made  a charge 
against  me  that  his  wishes  were  honorable,  and  that 
therefore  I was  bound  to  yield  to  them,  I answer  that 
when  on  this  very  spot  where  now  his  grave  is  made 
he  declared  to  me  his  purity  of  purpose,  I told  him 
that  mine  was  to  live  in  perpetual  solitude,  and  that 
the  earth  alone  should  enjoy  the  fruits  of  my  retire- 
ment and  the  spoils  of  my  beauty ; and  if,  after  this 
open  avowal,  he  chose  to  persist  against  hope  and 
steer  against  the  wind,  what  wonder  is  it  that  he 
should  sink  in  the  depths  of  his  infatuation  ? If  I had 
encouraged  him,  I should  be  false ; if  I had  gratified 
him,  I should  have  acted  against  my  own  better  reso- 
lution and  purpose.  He  was  persistent  in  spite  of 
warning,  he  despaired  without  being  hated.  Bethink 
you  now  if  it  be  reasonable  that  his  suffering  should  be 
laid  to  my  charge.  Let  him  who  has  been  deceived 
complain,  let  him  give  way  to  despair  whose  encour- 
aged hopes  have  proved  vain,  let  him  flatter  himself 
whom  I shall  entice,  let  him  boast  whom  1 shall 
receive ; but  let  not  him  call  me  cruel  or  homicide  to 
whom  I make  no  promise,  upon  whom  I practise  no 
deception,  whom  I neither  entice  nor  receive.  It  has 
not  been  so  far  the  will  of  Heaven  that  I should  love 


CHAPTER  XIV. 


289 


by  fate,  and  to  expect  me  to  love  by  choice  is  idle. 
Let  this  general  declaration  serve  for  each  of  my 
suitors  on  his  own  account,  and  let  it  be  understood 
from  this  time  forth  that  if  any  one  dies  for  me  it  is 
not  of  jealousy  or  misery  he  dies,  for  she  who  loves  no 
one  can  give  no  cause  for  jealousy  to  any,  and  candor 
is  not  to  be  confounded  with  scorn.  Let  him  who 
calls  me  wild  beast  and  basilisk,  leave  me  alone  as 
something  noxious  and  evil ; let  him  who  calls  me 
ungrateful,  withhold  his  service ; who  calls  me  way- 
ward, seek  not  my  acquaintance ; who  calls  me  cruel, 
pursue  me  not ; for  this  wild  beast,  this  basilisk,  this 
ungrateful,  cruel,  wayward  being  has  no  kind  of  desire 
to  seek,  serve,  know,  or  follow  them.  If  Chrysostom’s 
impatience  and  violent  passion  killed  him,  why  should 
my  modest  behavior  and  circumspection  be  blamed  ? 
If  I preserve  my  purity  in  the  society  of  the  trees,  why 
should  he  who  would  have  me  preserve  it  among  men, 
seek  to  rob  me  of  it  ? I have,  as  you  know,  wealth  of 
my  own,  and  I covet  not  that  of  others ; my  taste  is 
for  freedom,  and  I have  no  relish  for  constraint ; I 
neither  love  nor  hate  any  one ; I do  not  deceive  this 
one  or  court  that,  or  trifle  with  one  or  play  with 
another.  The  modest  converse  of  the  shepherd  girls 
of  these  hamlets  and  the  care  of  my  goats  are  my 
recreations ; my  desires  are  bounded  by  these  moun- 
tains, and  if  they  ever  wander  hence  it  is  to  contem- 
plate the  beauty  of  the  heavens,  steps  by  which  the 
soul  travels  to  its  primeval  abode.” 

With  these  words,  and  not  waiting  to  hear  a reply. 


290 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


she  turned  and  passed  into  the  thickest  part  of  a wood 
that  was  hard  by,  leaving  all  who  were  there  lost  in 
admiration  as  much  of  her  good  sense  as  of  her 
beauty.  Some  — those  wounded  by  the  irresistible 
shafts  launched  by  her  bright  eyes  — made  as  though 
they  would  follow  her,  heedless  of  the  frank  declara- 
tion they  had  heard ; seeing  which,  and  deeming  this 
a fitting  occasion  for  the  exercise  of  his  chivalry  in  aid 
of  distressed  damsels,  Don  Quixote,  laying  his  hand 
on  the  hilt  of  his  sword,  exclaimed  in  a loud  and 
distinct  voice  : 

‘‘  Let  no  one,  whatever  his  rank  or  condition,  dare 
to  follow  the  beautiful  Marcela,  under  pain  of  incur- 
ring my  fierce  indignation.  She  has  shown  by  clear 
and  satisfactory  arguments  that  little  or  no  fault  is  to 
be  found  with  her  for  the  death  of  Chrysostom,  and 
also  how  far  she  is  from  yielding  to  the  wishes  of  any 
of  her  lovers,  for  which  reason,  instead  of  being  fol- 
lowed and  persecuted,  she  should  in  justice  be  honored 
and  esteemed  by  all  the  good  people  of  the  world,  for 
she  shows  that  she  is  the  only  woman  in  it  that  holds 
to  such  a virtuous  resolution.” 

Whether  it  was  because  of  the  threats  of  Don  Qui- 
xote, or  because  Ambrosio  told  them  to  fulfil  their  duty 
to  their  good  friend,  none  of  the  shepherds  moved  or 
stirred  from  the  spot  until,  having  finished  the  grave 
and  burned  Chrysostom’s  papers,  they  laid  his  body 
in  it,  not  without  many  tears  from  those  who  stood 
by.  They  closed  the  grave  with  a heavy  stone  until 
a slab  was  ready  which  Antonio  said  he  meant  to 


CHAPTER  XIV. 


291 


have  prepared,  with  an  epitaph  which  was  to  be  to 
this  effect : 


Beneath  the  stone  before  your  eyes 
The  body  of  a lover  lies; 

In  life  he  was  a shepherd  swain, 

In  death  a victim  to  disdain. 
Ungrateful,  cruel,  coy,  and  fair. 
Was  she  that  drove  him  to  despair. 
And  Love  hath  made  her  his  ally 
For  spreading  wide  his  tyranny. 


They  then  strewed  upon  the  grave  a profusion  of 
flowers  and  branches,  and  all  expressing  their  condo- 
lence with  his  friend  Ambrosio,  took  their  leave. 
Vivaldo  and  his  companion  did  the  same ; and  Don 
Quixote  bade  farewell  to  his  hosts  and  to  the  travellers, 
who  pressed  him  to  come  with  them  to  Seville,  as 
being  such  a convenient  place  for  finding  adventures, 
for  they  presented  themselves  in  every  street  and 
round  every  corner  oftener  than  anywhere  else.  Don 
Quixote  thanked  them  for  their  advice  and  for  the 
disposition  they  showed  to  do  him  a favor,  and  said 
that  for  the  present  he  would  not,  and  must  not  go 
to  Seville  until  he  had  cleared  all  these  mountains  of 
highwaymen  and  robbers,  of  whom  report  said  they 
were  full.  Seeing  his  good  intention,  the  travellers 
were  unwilling  to  press  him  further,  and  once  more 
bidding  him  farewell,  they  left  him  and  pursued  their 
journey,  in  the  course  of  which  they  did  not  fail  to 
discuss  the  story  of  Marcela  and  Chrysostom  as  well 
as  the  madness  of  Don  Quixote.  He,  on  his  part, 


292 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


resolved  to  go  in  quest  of  the  shepherdess  Marcela, 
and  make  offer  to  her  of  all  the  service  he  could 
render  her ; but  things  did  not  fall  out  with  him  as 
he  expected,  according  to  what  is  related  in  the 
course  of  this  veracious  history,  of  which  the  Second 
Part  ends  here. 


CHAPTER  XV. 


293 


CHAPTER  XV. 

IN  WHICH  IS  RELATED  THE  UNFORTUNATE  ADVENTURE 
THAT  DON  QUIXOTE  FELL  IN  WITH  WHEN  HE  FELL 
OUT  WITH  CERTAIN  HEARTLESS  YANGUESANS. 

The  sage  Cid  Hamet  Benengeli  relates  that  as 
soon  as  Don  Quixote  took  leave  of  his  hosts  and  all 
who  had  been  present  at  the  burial  of  Chrysostom, 
he  and  his  squire  passed  into  the  same  wood  which 
they  had  seen  the  shepherdess  Marcela  enter,  and 
after  having  wandered  for  more  than  two  hours  in  all 
directions  in  search  of  her  without  finding  her,  they 
came  to  a halt  in  a glade  covered  with  tender  grass, 
beside  which  ran  a pleasant  cool  stream  that  invited 
and  compelled  them  to  pass  there  the  hours  of  the 
noontide  heat,  which  by  this  time  was  beginning  to 
come  on  oppressively.  Don  Quixote  and  Sancho 
dismounted,  and  turning  Rocinante  and  the  ass  loose 
to  feed  on  the  grass  that  was  there  in  abundance,  they 
ransacked  the  alforjas,  and  without  any  ceremony  very 
peacefully  and  sociably  master  and  man  made  their 
repast  on  what  they  found  in  them.  Sancho  had  not 
thought  it  worth  while  to  hobble  Rocinante,  feeling 
sure,  from  what  he  knew  of  his  staidness  and  freedom 
from  incontinence,  that  all  the  mares  in  the  Cordova 


294 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


pastures  would  not  lead  him  into  an  impropriety. 
Chance,  however,  and  the  devil,  who  is  not  always 
asleep,  so  ordained  it  that  feeding  in  this  valley  there 
was  a drove  of  Galician  ponies  belonging  to  certain 
Yanguesan  ^ carriers,  whose  way  it  is  to  take  their 
midday  rest  with  their  teams  in  places  and  spots 
where  grass  and  water  abound ; and  that  where  Don 
Quixote  chanced  to  be  suited  the  Yanguesans’  pur- 
pose very  well.  It  so  happened,  then,  that  Rocinante 
took  a fancy  to  disport  himself  with  their  ladyships 
the  ponies,  and  abandoning  his  usual  gait  and  de- 
meanor as  he  scented  them,  he,  without  asking  leave 
of  his  master,  got  up  a briskish  little  trot  and  hastened 
to  make  known  his  wishes  to  them ; they,  however, 
it  seemed,  preferred  their  pasture  to  him,  and  received 
him  with  their  heels  and  teeth  to  such  effect  that  they 
soon  broke  his  girths  and  left  him  naked  without  a 
saddle  to  cover  him ; but  what  must  have  been  worse 
to  him  was  that  the  carriers,  seeing  the  violence  he 
was  offering  to  their  mares,  came  running  up  armed 
with  stakes,^  and  so  belabored  him  that  they  brought 
him  sorely  battered  to  the  ground. 

By  this  time  Don  Quixote  and  Sancho,  who  had 
witnessed  the  drubbing  of  Rocinante,  came  up  pant- 
ing, and  said  Don  Quixote  to  Sancho,  “ So  far  as  I 
can  see,  friend  Sancho,  these  are  not  knights  but  base 
folk  of  low  birth  : I mention  it  because  thou  canst 


* i.e.  of  Yanguas,  a district  in  the  north  of  Old  Castile,  near  Logroho. 

2 Used  by  the  carriers  in  loading  their  beasts  to  prop  up  the  pack  on  one 
side  while  they  are  adjusting  the  balance  on  the  other. 


CHAPTER  XV. 


295 


lawfully  aid  me  in  taking  due  vengeance  for  the  insult 
offered  to  Rocinante  before  our  eyes.” 

“ What  the  devil  vengeance  can  we  take,”  answered 
Sancho,  “ if  they  are  more  than  twenty,  and  we  no 
more  than  two,  or,  indeed,  perhaps  not  more  than 
one  and  a half?” 

I count  for  a hundred,”  replied  Don  Quixote,  and 
without  more  words  he  drew  his  sword  and  attacked 
the  Yanguesans,  and  incited  and  impelled  by  the 
example  of  his  master,  Sancho  did  the  same ; and  to 
begin  with,  Don  Quixote  delivered  a slash  at  one 
of  them  that  laid  open  the  leather  jerkin  he  wore, 
together  with  a great  portion  of  his  shoulder.  The 
Yanguesans,  seeing  themselves  assaulted  by  only  two 
men  while  they  were  so  many,  betook  themselves  to 
their  stakes,  and  driving  the  two  into  the  middle  they 
began  to  lay  on  with  great  zeal  and  energy ; in  fact,  at 
the  second  blow  they  brought  Sancho  to  the  ground, 
and  Don  Quixote  fared  the  same  way,  all  his  skill  and 
high  mettle  availing  him  nothing,  and  fate  willed  it 
that  he  should  fall  at  the  feet  of  Rocinante,  who  had 
not  yet  risen ; whereby  it  may  be  seen  how  furiously 
stakes  can  pound  in  angry  boorish  hands.  ^ Then, 
seeing  the  mischief  they  had  done,  the  Yanguesans 
with  all  the  haste  they  could  loaded  their  team  and 
pursued  their  journey,  leaving  the  two  adventurers  a 
sorry  sight  and  in  sorrier  mood. 

Sancho  was  the  first  to  come  to,  and  finding  him- 

^ An  allusion  probably  to  the  story  of  Diego  Perez  de  Vargas,  “ the 
pounder.”  ( V.  chapter  viii.) 


296 


£>OAr  QUIXOTE. 


self  close  to  his  master  he  called  to  him  in  a weak 
and  doleful  voice,  ‘‘  Sehor  Don  Quixote,  ah,  Senor 
Don  Quixote  ! ” 

“What  wouldst  thou,  brother  Sancho?”  answered 
Don  Quixote  in  the  same  feeble  suffering  tone  as 
Sancho. 

“ I would  like,  if  it  were  possible,”  answered  San- 
cho Panza,  “ your  worship  to  give  me  a couple  of  sups 
of  that  potion  of  the  fiery  Blas,^  if  it  be  that  you  have 
any  to  hand  there ; perhaps  it  will  serve  for  broken 
bones  as  well  as  for  wounds.” 

“ If  I only  had  it  here,  wretch  that  I am,  what 
more  should  we  want?”  said  Don  Quixote;  “but  I 
swear  to  thee,  Sancho  Panza,  on  the  faith  of  a knight- 
errant,  ere  two  days  are  over,  unless  fortune  orders 
otherwise,  I mean  to  have  it  in  my  possession,  or  my 
hand  will  have  lost  its  cunning.” 

“ But  in  how  many  does  your  worship  think  we 
shall  have  the  use  of  our  feet?”  answered  Sancho 
Panza. 

“ For  myself  I must  say  I cannot  guess  how  many,” 
said  the  battered  knight  Don  Quixote ; “ but  I take 
all  the  blame  upon  myself,  for  I had  no  business  to 
put  hand  to  sword  against  men  who  were  not  dubbed 
knights  like  myself,  and  so  I believe  that  in  punish- 
ment for  having  transgressed  the  laws  of  chivalry  the 
God  of  battles  has  permitted  this  chastisement  to  be 
administered  to  me ; for  which  reason,  brother  San- 


* Sancho’s  blunder  in  the  name  of  Fierabras  is  droller  in  the  original,  as 
he  says,  del feo  Bias,  “ of  the  ugly  Bias." 


CHAPTER  XV. 


297 


cho,  it  is  well  thou  shouldst  receive  a hint  on  the 
matter  which  I am  now  about  to  mention  to  thee,  for 
it  is  of  much  importance  to  the  welfare  of  both  of  us. 
It  is  that  when  thou  shalt  see  rabble  of  this  sort  offer- 
ing us  insult  thou  art  not  to  wait  till  I draw  sword 
against  them,  for  I shall  not  do  so  at  all ; but  do  thou 
draw  sword  and  chastise  them  to  thy  heart’s  content, 
and  if  any  knights  come  to  their  aid  and  defence  I 
will  take  care  to  defend  thee  and  assail  them  with  all 
my  might ; and  thou  hast  already  seen  by  a thousand 
signs  and  proofs  what  the  might  of  this  strong  arm  of 
mine  is  equal  to  ” — so  uplifted  had  the  poor  gentleman 
become  through  the  victory  over  the  stout  Biscayan. 

But  Sancho  did  not  so  fully  approve  of  his  master’s 
admonition  as  to  let  it  pass  without  saying  in  reply, 
Senor,  I am  a man  of  peace,  meek  and  quiet,  and  I 
can  put  up  with  any  affront  because  I have  a wife 
and  children  to  support  and  bring  up ; so  let  it  be 
likewise  a hint  to  your  worship,  as  it  cannot  be  a 
mandate,  that  on  no  account  will  I draw  sword  either 
against  clown  or  against  knight,  and  that  here  before 
God  I forgive  all  the  insults  that  have  been  offered 
me  or  may  be  offered  me,  whether  they  have  been, 
are,  or  shall  be  offered  me  by  high  or  low,  rich  or 
poor,  noble  or  commoner,  not  excepting  any  rank 
or  condition  whatsoever.” 

To  all  which  his  master  said  in  reply,  “ I wish  I 
had  breath  enough  to  speak  somewhat  easily,  and  that 
the  pain  I feel  on  this  side  would  abate  so  as  to  let 
me  explain  to  thee,  Panza,  the  mistake  thou  makest. 


298 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


Come  now,  sinner,  suppose  the  wind  of  fortune, 
hitherto  so  adverse,  should  turn  in  our  favor,  filling 
the  sails  of  our  desires  so  that  safely  and  without 
impediment  we  put  into  port  in  some  one  of  those 
islands  I have  promised  thee,  how  would  it  be  with 
thee  if  on  winning  it  I made  thee  lord  of  it  ? Why, 
thou  wilt  make  it  well-nigh  impossible  through  not 
being  a knight  nor  having  any  desire  to  be  one,  nor 
possessing  the  courage  nor  the  will  to  avenge  insults 
or  defend  thy  lordship ; for  thou  must  know  that  in 
newly  conquered  kingdoms  and  provinces  the  minds 
of  the  inhabitants  are  never  so  quiet  nor  so  well  dis- 
posed to  the  new  lord  that  there  is  no  fear  of  their 
making  some  move  to  change  matters  once  more,  and 
try,  as  they  say,  what  chance  may  do  for  them  ; so  it 
is  essential  that  the  new  possessor  should  have  good 
sense  to  enable  him  to  govern,  and  valor  to  attack  and 
defend  himself,  whatever  may  befall  him.” 

“ In  what  has  now  befallen  us,”  answered  Sancho, 
“ I’d  have  been  well  pleased  to  have  that  good  sense 
and  that  valor  your  worship  speaks  of,  but  I swear  on 
the  faith  of  a poor  man  I am  more  fit  for  plasters 
than  for  arguments.  See  if  your  worship  can  get  up, 
and  let  us  help  Rocinante,  though  he  does  not  de- 
serve it,  for  he  was  the  main  cause  of  all  this  thrash- 
ing. I never  thought  it  of  Rocinante,  for  I took  him 
to  be  a virtuous  person  and  as  quiet  as  myself.  After 
all,  they  say  right  that  it  takes  a long  time  to  come  to 
know  people,  and  that  there  is  nothing  sure  in  this 
life.  Who  would  have  said  that,  after  such  mighty 


CHAPTER  XK 


299 


slashes  as  your  worship  gave  that  unlucky  knight- 
errant,  there  was  coming,  travelling  post  and  at  the 
very  heels  of  them,  such  a great  storm  of  sticks  as 
has  fallen  upon  our  shoulders  ? ” 

“And  yet  thine,  Sancho,”  replied  Don  Quixote, 
“ ought  to  be  used  to  such  squalls ; but  mine,  reared 
in  soft  cloth  and  fine  linen,  it  is  plain  they  must  feel 
more  keenly  the  pain  of  this  mishap,  and  if  it  were 
not  that  I imagine  — why  do  I say  imagine  ? — know 
of  a certainty  that  all  these  annoyances  are  very 
necessary  accompaniments  of  the  calling  of  arms,  I 
would  lay  me  down  here  to  die  of  pure  vexation.” 

To  this  the  squire  replied,  “ Sehor,  as  these  mishaps 
are  what  one  reaps  of  chivalry,  tell  me  if  they  happen 
very  often,  or  if  they  have  their  own  fixed  times  for 
coming  to  pass ; because  it  seems  to  me  that  after 
two  harvests  we  shall  be  no  good  for  the  third,  unless 
God  in  his  infinite  mercy  helps  us.” 

“ Know,  friend  Sancho,”  answered  Don  Quixote, 
“ that  the  life  of  knights-errant  is  subject  to  a thou- 
sand dangers  and  reverses,  and  neither  more  nor  less 
is  it  within  immediate  possibility  for  knights-errant 
to  become  kings  and  emperors,  as  experience  has 
shown  in  the  case  of  many  different  knights  with 
whose  histories  I am  thoroughly  acquainted ; and  I 
could  tell  thee  now,  if  the  pain  would  let  me,  of  some 
who  simply  by  might  of  arm  have  risen  to  the  high 
stations  I have  mentioned ; and  those  same,  both 
before  and  after,  experienced  divers  misfortunes  and 
miseries ; for  the  valiant  Amadis  of  Gaul  found  him- 


300 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


self  in  the  power  of  his  mortal  enemy  Arcalaus  the 
magician,  who,  it  is  positively  asserted,  holding  him 
captive,  gave  him  more  than  two  hundred  lashes  with 
the  reins  of  his  horse  while  tied  to  one  of  the  pillars 
of  a court ; ^ and  moreover  there  is  a certain  recondite 
author  of  no  small  authority  who  says  that  the  Knight 
of  Phoebus,  being  caught  in  a certain  pitfall  which 
opened  under  his  feet  in  a certain  castle,  on  falling 
found  himself  bound  hand  and  foot  in  a deep  pit 
underground,  where  they  administered  to  him  one  of 
those  things  they  call  clysters,  of  sand  and  snow-water, 
that  well-nigh  finished  him ; and  if  he  had  not  been 
succored  in  that  sore  extremity  by  a sage,  a great 
friend  of  his,  it  would  have  gone  very  hard  with  the 
poor  knight ; so  I may  well  suffer  in  company  with 
such  worthy  folk,  for  greater  were  the  indignities 
which  they  had  to  suffer  than  those  which  we  suffer. 
For  I would  have  thee  know,  Sancho,  that  wounds 
caused  by  any  instruments  which  happen  by  chance 
to  be  in  hand  inflict  no  indignity,  and  this  is  laid 
down  in  the  law  of  the  duel  in  express  words  : if,  for 
instance,  the  cobbler  strikes  another  with  the  last  which 
he  has  in  his  hand,  though  it  be  in  fact  a piece  of 
wood,  it  cannot  be  said  for  that  reason  that  he  whom 
he  struck  with  it  has  been  cudgelled.  I say  this  lest 
thou  shouldst  imagine  that  because  we  have  been 
drubbed  in  this  affray  we  have  therefore  suffered  any 
indignity ; for  the  arms  those  men  carried,  with  which 


* There  is  no  account  of  any  such  flogging  in  the  A madis. 


CHAPTER  XV. 


30  T 

they  pounded  us,  were  nothing  more  than  their  stakes, 
and  not  one  of  them,  so  far  as  I remember,  carried 
rapier,  sword,  or  dagger.” 

‘‘They  gave  me  no  time  to  see  that  much,” 
answered  Sancho,  “ for  hardly  had  I laid  hand  on  my 
tizona  ‘ when  they  signed  the  cross  on  my  shoulders 
with  their  sticks  in  such  style  that  they  took  the  sight 
out  of  my  eyes  and  the  strength  out  of  my  feet, 
stretching  me  where  I now  lie,  and  where  thinking  of 
whether  all  those  stake-strokes  were  an  indignity  or 
not  gives  me  no  uneasiness,  which  the  pain  of  the 
blows  does,  for  they  will  remain  as  deeply  impressed 
on  my  memory  as  on  my  shoulders.” 

“ For  all  that  let  me  tell  thee,  brother  Panza,”  said 
Don  Quixote,  “that  there  is  no  recollection  which 
time  does  not  put  an  end  to,  and  no  pain  which  death 
does  not  remove.” 

“ And  what  greater  misfortune  can  there  be,”  re- 
plied Panza,  “ than  the  one  that  waits  for  time  to  put 
an  end  to  it  and  death  to  remove  it  ? If  our  mishap 
were  one  of  those  that  are  cured  with  a couple  of 
plasters,  it  would  not  be  so  bad  ; but  I am  beginning 
to  think  that  all  the  plasters  in  a hospital  almost  won’t 
be  enough  to  put  us  right.” 

“No  more  of  that : pluck  strength  out  of  weak- 
ness, Sancho,  as  I mean  to  do,”  returned  Don  Qui- 
xote, “ and  let  us  see  how  Rocinante  is,  for  it  seems  to 


* Tizon  was  the  name  of  one  of  the  Cid’s  two  famous  swords ; the  word 
was  altered  into  Tizona  to  suit  the  trochaic  rhythm  of  the  ballads.  It  means 
simply  “brand.” 


302 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


me  that  not  the  least  share  of  this  mishap  has  fallen 
to  the  lot  of  the  poor  beast.” 

There  is  nothing  wonderful  in  that,”  replied  San- 
cho,  “ since  he  is  a knight-errant  too ; what  I wonder 
at  is  that  my  beast  should  have  come  off  scot-free 
where  we  come  out  scotched.”  ' 

Fortune  always  leaves  a door  open  in  adversity  in 
order  to  bring  relief  to  it,”  said  Don  Quixote  ; “ I 
say  so  because  this  little  beast  may  now  supply  the 
want  of  Rocinante,  carrying  me  hence  to  some  castle 
where  I may  be  cured  of  my  wounds.  And  more- 
over I shall  not  hold  it  any  dishonor  to  be  so  mounted, 
for  I remember  having  read  how  the  good  old  Silenus, 
the  tutor  and  instructor  of  the  gay  god  of  laughter, 
when  he  entered  the  city  of  the  hundred  gates,^  went 
very  contentedly  mounted  on  a handsome  ass.” 

It  may  be  true  that  he  went  mounted  as  your  wor- 
ship says,”  answered  Sancho,  ‘^but  there  is  a great 
difference  between  going  mounted  and  going  slung 
like  a sack  of  manure.”  3 


* In  this  characteristic  comment  of  Sancho’s,  Hartzenbusch  corrects 
Caballero  andante  — “ knight-errant  ” — into  caballeria  andante  — “ horse- 
errant  ” (entirely  overlooking  the  tanibie^i  — “too”),  and  with  profound 
gravity  reminds  us  that  Rocinante  is  a horse.  Mr.  J.  P.  Collier’s  “old  cor- 
rector” in  the  1632  folio  Shakespeare  could  hardly  do  worse  than  this.  The 
play  upon  the  words  shi  costas  and  sin  costillas  cannot  be  rendered  literally; 
sin  costillas  — “without  ribs”  — means  al.so  in  popular  parlance  bankrupt, 
“ cleaned  out.” 

2 'Phebes;  but  that  of  the  hundred  gates  was  the  Egyptian,  not  the 
Boeotian  Thebes,  which  is  the  one  here  referred  to. 

3 The  grave  drollery  of  Sancho’s  matter-of-fact  reply  is  lost  in  transla- 
tion, inasmuch  as  in  Spanish  “ to  go  mounted”  — ir  Caballero  — implies  also 
“ to  go  like  a gentleman.” 


CHAPTER  XV. 


303 


To  which  Don  Quixote  replied,  ‘‘  Wounds  received 
in  battle  confer  honor  instead  of  taking  it  away ; and 
so,  friend  Panza,  say  no  more,  but,  as  I told  thee 
before,  get  up  as  well  as  thou  canst  and  put  me  on 
top  of  thy  beast  in  whatever  fashion  pleases  thee  best, 
and  let  us  go  hence  ere  night  come  on  and  surprise 
us  in  these  wilds.” 

‘‘  And  yet  I have  heard  your  worship  say,”  observed 
Panza,  that  it  is  very  meet  for  knights-errant  to  sleep 
in  wastes  and  deserts  the  best  part  of  the  year,  and 
that  they  esteem  it  very  good  fortune.” 

“That  is,”  said  Don  Quixote,  “when  they  cannot 
help  it,  or  when  they  are  in  love ; and  so  true  is  this 
that  there  have  been  knights  who  have  remained  two 
years  on  rocks,  in  sunshine  and  shade  and  all  the  in- 
clemencies of  heaven,  without  their  ladies  knowing 
any  thing  of  it ; and  one  of  these  was  Amadis  when, 
under  the  name  of  Beltenebros,  he  took  up  his  abode 
on  the  Pena  Pobre  for  — I know  not  if  it  was  eight 
years  or  eight  months,  for  I am  not  very  sure  of  the 
reckoning ; at  any  rate  he  staid  there  doing  penance 
for  I know  not  what  pique  the  Princess  Oriana  had 
against  him ; but  no  more  of  this  now,  Sancho,  and 
make  haste  before  some  other  mishap  like  Rocinante’s 
befalls  the  ass.” 

“ The  very  devil  would  be  in  it  in  that  case,”  said 
Sancho ; and  letting  off  thirty  “ ohs,”  and  sixty  sighs, 
and  a hundred  and  twenty  maledictions  and  execra- 
crations  on  whomsoever  it  was  that  had  brought  him 
there,  he  raised  himself,  stopping  half-way  bent  like  a 


304 


BON  QUIXOTE. 


Turkish  bow  without  power  to  bring  himself  upright, 
but  with  all  his  pains  he  saddled  his  ass,  who  too  had 
gone  astray  somewhat,  yielding  to  the  excessive  license 
of  the  day ; he  next  raised  up  Rocinante,  and  as  for 
him,  had  he  possessed  a tongue  to  complain  with, 
most  assuredly  neither  Sanchb  nor  his  master  would 
have  been  behind  him.^  To  be  brief,  Sancho  fixed 
Don  Quixote  on  the  ass  and  secured  Rocinante  with 
a leading  rein,  and  taking  the  ass  by  the  halter,  he 
proceeded  more  or  less  in  the  direction  in  which  it 
seemed  to  him  the  high  road  might  be ; and,  as 
chance  was  conducting  their  affairs  for  them  from 
good  to  better,  he  had  not  gone  a short  league  when 
the  road  came  in  sight,  and  on  it  he  perceived  an  inn, 
which  to  his  annoyance  and  to  the  delight  of  Don 
Quixote  must  needs  be  a castle.  Sancho  insisted  that 
it  was  an  inn,  and  his  master  that  it  was  not  one,  but 
a castle,  and  the  dispute  lasted  so  long  that  before  the 
point  was  settled  they  had  time  to  reach  it,  and  into 
it  Sancho  entered  with  all  his  team,^  without  any  fur- 
ther controversy. 


^ This  is  another  example  of  the  loose  construction  and  confusion  into 
which  Cervantes  fell  at  times.  Of  course  he  meant  to  say  that  Rocinante 
would  not  have  been  behind  them  in  complaining. 

2 The  entrance  of  a Spanish  venta  or  posnda  is  almost  always  a wide 
gateway  through  which  both  man  and  beast  enter  to  their  respective  quar- 
ters. The  high  road  — camino  real — was  the  Madrid  and  Seville  road,  and 
on  it,  or  some  little  distance  one  side  or  the  other  of  it,  all  the  adventures  of 
the  First  Part  are  supposed  to  take  place.  From  its  distance  from  the  Sierra 
Morena  this  venta  would  be  .somewhere  near  Valdepefias,  in  the  great  wine- 
growing district.  The  scene  of  the  release  of  the  galley  slaves  in  chapter 
xxii.  would  be  near  Almuradiel.  (V.  map.) 


UMAF': 

Of  THt 

ONIVtKSlTY  Of  ILLINOIS 


CHAPTER  XVI. 


305 


CHAPTER  XVL 

OF  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  THE  INGENIOUS  GENTLEMAN  IN 
THE  INN  WHICH  HE  TOOK  TO  BE  A CASTLE. 

The  innkeeper,  seeing  Don  Quixote  slung  across 
the  ass,  asked  Sancho  what  was  amiss  with  him.  San- 
cho  answered  that  it  was  nothing,  only  that  he  had 
fallen  down  from  a rock  and  had  his  ribs  a little 
bruised.  The  innkeeper  had  a wife  whose  disposition 
was  not  such  as  those  of  her  calling  commonly  have, 
for  she  was  by  nature  kind-hearted  and  felt  for  the 
sufferings  of  her  neighbors,  so  she  at  once  set  about 
tending  Don  Quixote,  and  made  her  young  daughter, 
a very  comely  girl,  help  her  in  taking  care  of  her 
guest.  There  was  besides  in  the  inn,  as  servant,  an 
Asturian  lass  with  a broad  face,  flat  poll,  and  snub 
nose,  blind  of  one  eye  and  not  very  sound  in  the 
other.  The  elegance  of  her  shape,  to  be  sure,  made 
up  for  all  her  defects ; she  did  not  measure  seven 
palms  from  head  to  foot,  and  her  shoulders,  which 
over-weighted  her  somewhat,  made  her  contemplate 
the  ground  more  than  she  liked.  This  graceful  lass, 
then,  helped  the  young  girl,  and  the  two  made  up  a 
very  bad  bed  for  Don  Quixote  in  a garret  that  showed 
evident  signs  of  having  formerly  served  for  many  years 


3o6 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


as  a straw-loft,  in  which  there  was  also  quartered  a 
carrier  whose  bed  was  placed  a little  beyond  our  Don 
Quixote’s,  and,  though  only  made  of  the  pack-saddles 
and  cloths  of  his  mules,  had  much  the  advantage  of 
it,  as  Don  Quixote’s  consisted  simply  of  four  rough 
boards  on  two  not  very  even  trestles,  a mattress,  that 
for  thinness  might  have  passed  for  a quilt,  full  of  pel- 
lets which,  were  they  not  seen  through  the  rents  to  be 
wool,  would  to  the  touch  have  seemed  pebbles  in 
hardness,  two  sheets  made  of  buckler  leather,  and  a 
coverlet  the  threads  of  which  any  one  that  chose 
might  have  counted  without  missing  one  in  the  reck- 
oning. 

On  this  accursed  bed  Don  Quixote  stretched  him- 
self, and  the  hostess  and  her  daughter  soon  covered 
him  with  plasters  from  top  to  toe,  while  Maritornes 
— for  that  was  the  name  of  the  Asturian  — held  the 
light  for  them,  and  while  plastering  him,  the  hostess, 
observing  how  full  of  wheals  Don  Quixote  was  in 
some  places,  remarked  that  this  had  more  the  look  of 
blows  than  of  a fall. 

It  was  not  blows,  Sancho  said,  but  that  the  rock 
had  many  points  and  projections,  and  that  each  of 
them  had  left  its  mark.  Pray,  sehora,”  he  added, 
manage  to  save  some  tow,  as  there  will  be  no  want  of 
some  one  to  use  it,  for  my  loins  too  are  rather  sore.” 

“ Then  you  must  have  fallen  too,”  said  the  hostess. 

“ I did  not  fall,”  said  Sancho  Panza,  “ but  from  the 
shock  I got  at  seeing  my  master  fall,  my  body  aches 
so  that  I feel  as  if  I had  had  a thousand  thwacks.” 


CHAPTER  XVL 


307 


“That  may  well  be,”  said  the  young  girl,  “for  it 
has  many  a time  happened  to  me  to  dream  that  I was 
falling  down  from  a tower  and  never  coming  to  the 
ground,  and  when  I awoke  from  the  dream  to  find 
myself  as  weak  and  shaken  as  if  I had  really  fallen.” 

“ There  is  the  point,  senora,”  replied  Sancho  Panza, 
“ that  I without  dreaming  at  all,  but  being  more  awake 
than  I am  now,  find  myself  with  scarcely  less  wheals 
than  my  master,  Don  Quixote.” 

“ How  is  the  gentleman  called?  ” asked  Maritornes 
the  Asturian. 

“ Don  Quixote  of  La  Mancha,”  answered  Sancho 
Panza,  “ and  he  is  a knight-adventurer,  and  one  of  the 
best  and  stoutest  that  have  been  seen  in  the  world 
this  long  time  past.” 

“What  is  a knight-adventurer?”  said  the  lass. 

“Are  you  so  new  in  the  world  as  not  to  know?” 
answered  Sancho  Panza.  “Well,  then,  you  must  know, 
sister,  that  a knight-adventurer  is  a thing  that  in  two 
words  is  seen  drubbed  and  emperor,  that  is  to-day  the 
most  miserable  and  needy  being  in  the  world,  and 
to-morrow  will  have  two  or  three  crowns  of  kingdoms 
to  give  his  squire.” 

“Then  how  is  it,”  said  the  hostess,  “that,  belonging 
to  so  good  a master  as  this,  you  have  not,  to  judge  by 
appearances,  even  so  much  as  a county?” 

“ It  is  too  soon  yet,”  answered  Sancho,  “ for  we 
have  only  been  a month  going  in  quest  of  adventures, 
and  so  far  we  have  met  with  nothing  that  can  be 
called  one,  for  it  will  happen  that  when  one  thing  is 


3o8 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


V 

looked  for  another  thing  is  found ; however,  if  my 
master  Don  Quixote  gets  well  of  this  wound,  or  fall, 
and  I am  left  none  the  worse  of  it,  I would  not  change 
my  hopes  for  the  best  title  in  Spain.” 

To  all  this  conversation  Don  Quixote  was  listening 
very  attentively,  and  sitting  up  in  bed  as  well  as  he 
could,  and  taking  the  hostess  by  the  hand  he  said  to 
her,  “Believe  me,  fair  lady,  you  may  call  yourself 
fortunate  in  having  in  this  castle  of  yours  sheltered 
my  person,  which  is  such  that  if  I do  not  myself 
praise  it,  it  is  because  of  what  is  commonly  said,  that 
self-praise  debaseth ; * but  my  squire  will  inform  you 
who  I am.  I only  tell  you  that  I shall  preserve  for 
ever  inscribed  on  my  memory  the  service  you  have 
rendered  me  in  order  to  tender  you  my  gratitude 
while  life  shall  last  me ; and  would  to  Heaven  love 
held  me  not  so  enthralled  and  subject  to  its  laws  and 
to  the  eyes  of  that  fair  ingrate  whom  I name  between 
my  teeth,  but  that  those  of  this  lovely  damsel  might 
be  the  masters  of  my  liberty.” 

The  hostess,  her  daughter,  and  the  worthy  Mari- 
tornes  listened  in  bewilderment  to  the  words  of  the 
knight-errant,  for  they  understood  about  as  much  of 
them  as  if  he  had  been  talking  Greek,  though  they 
could  perceive  they  were  all  meant  for  expressions  of 
good-will  and  blandishments ; and  not  being  accus- 
tomed to  this  kind  of  language,  they  stared  at  him 
and  wondered  to  themselves,  for  he  seemed  to  them 


Prov.  6. 


CHAPTER  XV/. 


309 


a man  of  a different  sort  from  those  they  were  used 
to,  and  thanking  him  in  pot-liouse  phrase  for  his  civil- 
ity they  left  him,  while  the  Asturian  gave  her  attention 
to  Sancho,  who  needed  it  no  less  than  his  master. 

The  carrier  had  made  an  arrangement  with  her  for 
recreation  that  night,  and  she  had  given  him  her  word 
that  when  the  guests  were  quiet  and  the  family  asleep 
she  would  come  in  search  of  him  and  meet  his  wishes 
unreservedly.  And  it  is  said  of  this  good  lass  that  she 
never  made  promises  of  the  kind  without  fulfilling 
them,  even  though  she  made  them  in  a forest  and 
without  any  witness  present,  for  she  plumed  herself 
greatly  on  being  a lady  and  held  it  no  disgrace  to 
be  in  such  an  employment  as  servant  in  an  inn, 
because,  she  said,  misfortunes  and  ill-luck  had  brought 
her  to  that  position.  The  hard,  narrow,  wretched, 
rickety  bed  of  Don  Quixote  stood  first  in  the  mid- 
dle of  this  star-lit  stable,'  and  close  beside  it  Sancho 
made  his,  which  merely  consisted  of  a rush  mat  and  a 
blanket  that  looked  as  if  it  was  of  threadbare  canvas 
rather  than  of  wool.  Next  to  these  two  beds  was  that 
of  the  carrier,  made  up,  as  has  been  said,  of  the  pack- 
saddles  and  all  the  trappings  of  the  two  best  mules  he 
had,  though  there  were  twelve  of  them,  sleek,  plump, 
and  in  prime  condition,  for  he  was  one  of  the  rich 
carriers  of  Arevalo,  according  to  the  author  of  this 
history,  who  particularly  mentions  this  carrier  because 
he  knew  him  very  well,  and  they  even  say  was  in  some 

I Estrellado  seems  to  have  puzzled  most  of  the  translators.  Shelton 
omits  it,  and  Jervas  renders  it  “ illustrious  ” 


310 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


degree  a relation  of  his ; ' besides  which  Cid  Hamet 
Benengeli  was  a historian  of  great  research  and  accu- 
racy in  all  things,  as  is  very  evident  since  he  would 
not  pass  over  in  silence  those  that  have  been  already 
mentioned,  however  trifling  and  insignificant  they 
might  be,  an  example  that  might  be  followed  by 
those  grave  historians  who  relate  transactions  so  curtly 
and  briefly  that  we  hardly  get  a taste  of  them,  all  the 
substance  of  the  work  being  left  in  the  ink-bottle  from 
carelessness,  perverseness,  or  ignorance.  A thousand 
blessings  on  the  author  of  Tablante  de  Ricamonte  ” 
and  that  of  the  other  book  in  which  the  deeds  of  the 
Conde  Tomillas  are  recounted ; with  what  minuteness 
they  describe  every  thing  ! ^ 

To  proceed,  then : after  having  paid  a visit  to  his 
team  and  given  them  their  second  feed,  the  carrier 
stretched  himself  on  his  pack-saddles  and  lay  waiting 
for  his  conscientious  Maritornes.  Sancho  was  by  this 
time  plastered  and  had  lain  down,  and  though  he 
strove  to  sleep  the  pain  of  his  ribs  would  not  let  him, 
while  Don  Quixote  with  the  pain  of  his  had  his  eyes 
as  wide  open  as  a hare’s.  The  inn  was  all  in  silence, 
and  in  the  whole  of  it  there  was  no  light  except  that 
given  by  a lantern  that  hung  burning  in  the  middle  of 


1 The  carrier  business,  Pellicer  points  out,  was  extensively  followed  by 
the  Moriscoes,  as  it  afforded  them  an  excuse  for  absenting  themselves  from 
Mass. 

2 Crotiica  de  Tablante  de  Ricamonte,  a romance  of  uncertain  date  and 
origin,  based  upon  the  Arthurian  legend.  The  Conde  Tomillas  was  a person- 
age at  the  Court  of  Charlemagne  mentioned  in  the  Montesinos  ballads,  but 
no  book  of  his  deeds  is  known. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 


3IT 

the  gateway.  This  strange  stillness,  and  the  thoughts, 
always  present  to  our  knight’s  mind,  of  the  incidents 
described  at  every  turn  in  the  books  that  were  the 
cause  of  his  misfortune,  conjured  up  to  his  imagina- 
tion as  extraordinary  a delusion  as  can  well  be  con- 
ceived, which  was  that  he  fancied  himself  to  have 
reached  a famous  castle  (for,  as  has  been  said,  all  the 
inns  he  lodged  in  were  castles  to  his  eyes),  and  that 
the  daughter  of  the  innkeeper  was  daughter  of  the 
lord  of  the  castle,  and  that  she,  won  by  his  high- 
bred bearing,  had  fallen  in  love  with  him,  and  had 
promised  to  come  to  his  bed  for  a while  that  night 
without  the  knowledge  of  her  parents ; and  holding 
all  this  fantasy  that  he  had  constructed  as  solid  fact, 
he  began  to  feel  uneasy  and  to  consider  the  perilous 
risk  which  his  virtue  was  about  to  encounter,  and  he 
resolved  in  his  heart  to  commit  no  treason  to  his  lady 
Dulcinea  del  Toboso,  even  though  the  queen  Guine- 
vere herself  and  the  dame  Quintahona  should  present 
themselves  before  him. 

While  he  was  taken  up  with  these  vagaries,  then, 
the  time  and  the  hour  — an  unlucky  one  for  him  — 
arrived  for  the  Asturian  to  come,  who  in  her  smock, 
with  bare  feet  and  her  hair  gathered  into  a fustian 
coif,  with  noiseless  and  cautious  steps  entered  the 
chamber  where  the  three  were  quartered,  in  quest  of 
the  carrier;  but  scarcely  had  she  gained  the  door 
when  Don  Quixote  perceived  her,  and  sitting  up  in 
his  bed  in  spite  of  his  plasters  and  the  pain  of  his 
ribs,  he  stretched  out  his  arms  to  receive  his  beauteous 


312 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


damsel.  The  Asturian,  who  went  all  doubled  up  and 
in  silence  with  her  hands  before  her  feeling  for  her 
lover,  encountered  the  arms  of  Don  Quixote,  who 
grasped  her  tightly  by  the  wrist,  and  drawing  her 
towards  him,  while  she  dared  not  utter  a word,  made 
her  sit  down  on  the  bed.  He  then  felt  her  smock, 
and  although  it  was  of  sackcloth  it  appeared  to  him 
to  be  of  the  finest  and  softest  silk  : on  her  wrists  she 
wore  some  glass  beads,  but  to  him  they  had  the  sheen 
of  precious  Orient  pearls  : her  hair,  which  in  some 
measure  resembled  a horse’s  mane,  he  rated  as  threads 
of  the  brightest  gold  of  Araby,  whose  refulgence 
dimmed  the  sun  himself : her  breath,  which  no  doubt 
smelt  of  yesterday’s  stale  salad,  seemed  to  him  to 
diffuse  a sweet  aromatic  fragrance  from  her  mouth ; 
and,  in  short,  he  drew  her  portrait  in  his  imagination 
with  the  same  features  and  in  the  same  style  as  that 
which  he  had  seen  in  his  books  of  the  other  princess 
who,  smitten  by  love,  came  with  all  the  adornments 
that  are  here  set  down,  to  see  the  sorely  wounded 
knight ; and  so  great  was  the  poor  gentleman’s  blind- 
ness that  neither  touch,  nor  smell,  nor  any  thing  else 
about  the  good  lass  that  would  have  made  any  but  a 
carrier  vomit,  were  enough  to  undeceive  him  ; on  the 
contrary,  he  was  persuaded  he  had  the  goddess  of 
beauty  in  his  arms,  and  holding  her  firmly  in  his  grasp 
he  went  on  to  say  in  a low,  tender  voice,  '‘Would  that 
I found  myself,  lovely  and  exalted  lady,  in  a position 
to  repay  such  a favor  as  that  which  you,  by  the  sight 
of  your  great  beauty,  have  granted  me  ; but  fortune. 


CHAPTER  XVL 


313 


which  is  never  weary  of  persecuting  the  good,  has 
chosen  to  place  me  upon  this  bed,  where  I lie  so 
bruised  and  broken  that  though  my  inclination  would 
gladly  comply  with  yours  it  is  impossible ; besides,  to 
this  impossibility  another  yet  greater  is  to  be  added, 
which  is  the  faith  that  I have  pledged  to  the  peerless 
Dulcinea  del  Toboso,  sole  lady  of  my  most  secret 
thoughts ; and  were  it  not  that  this  stood  in  the  way 
I should  not  be  so  insensible  a knight  as  to  miss  the 
happy  opportunity  which  your  great  goodness  has 
offered  me.” 

Maritornes  was  fretting  and  sweating  at  finding  her- 
self held  so  fast  by  Don  Quixote,  and  not  understand- 
ing or  heeding  the  words  he  addressed  to  her,  she 
strove  without  speaking  to  free  herself.  The  worthy 
carrier,  whose  unholy  thoughts  kept  him  awake,  was 
aware  of  his  doxy  the  moment  she  entered  the  door, 
and  was  listening  attentively  to  all  Don  Quixote  said ; 
and  jealous  that  the  Asturian  should  have  broken  her 
word  with  him  for  another,  drew  nearer  to  Don 
Quixote’s  bed  and  stood  still  to  see  what  would  come 
of  this  talk  which  he  could  not  understand ; but  when 
he  perceived  the  wench  struggling  to  get  free  and 
Don  Quixote  striving  to  hold  her,  not  relishing  the 
joke  he  raised  his  arm  and  delivered  such  a terrible 
cuff  on  the  lank  jaws  of  the  amorous  knight  that  he 
bathed  all  his  mouth  in  blood,  and  not  content  with 
this  he  mounted  on  his  ribs  and  with  his  feet  tramped 
all  over  them  at  a pace  rather  smarter  than  a trot. 
The  bed,  which  was  somewhat  crazy  and  not  very  firm 


314 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


on  its  feet,  unable  to  bear  the  additional  weight  of 
the  carrier,  came  to  the  ground,  and  at  the  mighty 
crash  of  this  the  innkeeper  awoke  and  at  once  con- 
cluded that  it  must  be  some  brawl  of  Maritornes’, 
because  after  calling  loudly  to  her  he  got  no  answer. 
With  this  suspicion  he  got  up,  and  lighting  a lamp 
hastened  to  the  quarter  where  he  had  heard  the 
disturbance.  The  wench,  seeing  that  her  master  was 
coming  and  knowing  that  his  temper  was  terrible, 
frightened  and  panic-stricken  made  for  the  bed  of 
Sancho  Panza,  who  still  slept,'  and  crouching  upon  it 
made  a ball  of  herself. 

The  innkeeper  came  in  exclaiming,  “Where  art 
thou,  strumpet?  Of  course  this  is  some  of  thy  work.” 
At  this  Sancho  awoke,  and  feeling  this  mass  almost  on 
top  of  him  fancied  he  had  the  nightmare  and  began 
to  distribute  fisticuffs  all  round,  of  which  a certain 
share  fell  upon  Maritornes,  who,  irritated  by  the  pain 
and  flinging  modesty  aside,  paid  back  so  many  in 
return  to  Sancho  that  she  woke  him  up  in  spite  of 
himself.  He  then,  finding  himself  so  handled,  by 
whom  he  knew  not,  raising  himself  up  as  well  as  he 
could,  grappled  with  Maritornes,  and  he  and  she 
between  them  began  the  bitterest  and  drollest  scrim- 
mage in  the  world.  The  carrier,  however,  perceiving 
by  the  light  of  the  innkeeper’s  candle  how  it  fared 
with  his  lady-love,  quitting  Don  Quixote,  ran  to  bring 
her  the  help  she  needed ; and  the  innkeeper  did  the 


I We  were  told  just  before  that  Sancho  was  unable  to  sleep. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 


315 


same  but  with  a different  intention,  for  his  was  to 
chastise  the  lass,  as  he  believed  that  beyond  a doubt 
she  alone  was  the  cause  of  all  the  harmony.  And  so, 
as  the  saying  is,  cat  to  rat,  rat  to  rope,  rope  to  stick, 
the  carrier  pounded  Sancho,  Sancho  the  lass,  she  him, 
and  the  innkeeper  her,  and  all  worked  away  so  briskly 
that  they  did  not  give  themselves  a moment’s  rest ; 
and  the  best  of  it  was  that  the  innkeeper’s  lamp  went 
out,  and  as  they  were  left  in  the  dark  they  all  laid 
on  one  upon  the  other  in  a mass  so  unmercifully  that 
there  was  not  a sound  spot  left  where  a hand  could 
light. 

It  so  happened  that  there  was  lodging  that  night  in 
the  inn  an  officer  of  what  they  call  the  Old  Holy 
Brotherhood  of  Toledo,  who,  also  hearing  the  extraor- 
dinary noise  of  the  conflict,  seized  his  staff  and  the 
tin  case  with  his  warrants,  and  made  his  way  in  the 
dark  into  the  room  crying,  Hold  ! in  the  name  of 
this  Jurisdiction  ! Hold  ! in  the  name  of  the  Holy 
Brotherhood  ! ” The  first  that  he  came  upon  was  the 
pummelled  Don  Quixote,  who  lay  stretched  senseless 
on  his  back  upon  his  broken-down  bed,  and,  his  hand 
falling  on  the  beard  as  he  felt  about,  he  continued  to 
cry,  “ Help  for  the  Jurisdiction  ! ” but  perceiving  that 
he  whom  he  had  laid  hold  of  did  not  move  or  stir,  he 
concluded  that  he  was  dead  and  that  those  in  the 
room  were  his  murderers,  and  with  this  suspicion  he 
raised  his  voice  still  higher,  calling  out,  ‘‘  Shut  the  inn 
gate ; see  that  no  one  goes  out ; they  have  killed  a 
man  here  ! ” This  cry  startled  them  all,  and  each 


3i6 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


dropped  the  contest  at  the  point  at  which  the  voice 
reached  him.  The  innkeeper  retreated  to  his  room, 
the  carrier  to  his  pack-saddles,  the  lass  to  her  crib  ; 
the  unlucky  Don  Quixote  and  Sancho  alone  were 
unable  to  move  from  where  they  were.  The  officer 
on  this  let  go  Don  Quixote’s  beard,  and  went  out  to 
look  for  a light  to  search  for  and  apprehend  the  cul- 
prits ; but  not  finding  one,  as  the  innkeeper  had  pur- 
posely extinguished  the  lantern  on  retreating  to  his 
room,  he  was  compelled  to  have  recourse  to  the 
hearth,  where  after  much  time  and  trouble  he  lit 
another  lamp. 


CI/APTEJ^  XVII. 


317 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

IN  WHICH  ARE  CONTAINED  THE  INNUMERABLE  TROUBLES 
WHICH  THE  BRAVE  DON  QUIXOTE  AND  HIS  GOOD 
SQUIRE  SANCHO  PANZA  ENDURED  IN  THE  INN,  WHICH 
TO  HIS  MISFORTUNE  HE  TOOK  TO  BE  A CASTLE. 

By  this  time  Don  Quixote  had  recovered  from  his 
swoon ; and  in  the  same  tone  of  voice  in  which  he 
had  called  to  his  squire  the  day  before  when  he  lay 
stretched  “ in  the  vale  of  the  stakes,”  * he  began  call- 
ing to  him  now,  “ Sancho,  my  friend,  art  thou  asleep  ? 
sleepest  thou,  friend  Sancho?” 

“ How  can  I sleep,  curses  on  it ! ” returned  Sancho 
discontentedly  and  bitterly,  “ when  it  is  plain  that  all 
the  devils  have  been  at  me  this  night?” 

‘^Thou  mayest  well  believe  that,”  answered  Don 
Quixote,  “ because,  either  I know  little,  or  this  castle 
is  enchanted,  for  thou  must  know  — but  this  that  I 
am  now  about  to  tell  thee  thou  must  swear  to  keep 
secret  until  after  my  death.” 

‘‘  I swear  it,”  answered  Sancho. 

“ I say  so,”  continued  Don  Quixote,  ‘‘  because  I 
hate  taking  away  any  one’s  good  name.” 


* The  words  quoted  are  the  beginning  of  one  of  the  Cid  ballads,  “ Por  el 
val  de  las  estacasP 


3i8 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


I say,”  repeated  Sancho,  that  I swear  to  hold 
my  tongue  about  it  till  the  end  of  your  worship’s  days, 
and  God  grant  I may  be  able  to  let  it  out  to-morrow.” 

Do  I do  thee  such  injuries,  Sancho,”  said  Don 
Quixote,  “ that  thou  wouldst  see  me  dead  so  soon?” 

It  is  not  for  that,”  replied  Sancho,  “ but  because 
I hate  keeping  things  long,  and  I don’t  want  them  to 
grow  rotten  with  me  from  over-keeping,” 

“ At  any  rate,”  said  Don  Quixote,  “ I have  more 
confidence  in  thy  affection  and  good  nature ; and  so  I 
would  have  thee  know  that  this  night  there  befell  me 
one  of  the  strangest  adventures  that  I could  describe, 
and  to  relate  it  to  thee  briefly  thou  must  know  that  a 
little  while  ago  the  daughter  of  the  lord  of  this  castle 
came  to  me,  and  that  she  is  the  most  elegant  and 
beautiful  damsel  that  could  be  found  in  the  wide 
world.  What  I could  tell  thee  of  the  charms  of  her 
person  ! of  her  lively  wit ! of  other  secret  matters 
which,  to  preserve  the  fealty  I owe  to  my  lady  Dul- 
cinea  del  Toboso,  I shall  pass  over  unnoticed  and  in 
silence  ! I will  only  tell  thee  that,  either  fate  being- 
envious  of  so  great  a boon  placed  in  my  hands  by 
good  fortune,  or  perhaps  (and  this  is  more  probable) 
this  castle  being,  as  I have  already  said,  enchanted, 
at  the  time  when  I was  engaged  in  the  sweetest  and 
most  amorous  discourse  with  her,  there  came,  without 
my  seeing  or  knowing  whence  it  came,  a hand  at- 
tached to  some  arm  of  some  huge  giant,  that  planted 
such  a cuff  on  my  jaws  that  I have  them  all  batlied  in 
blood,  and  then  pummelled  me  in  such  a way  that  1 


CHAPTER  XVII. 


319 


am  in  a worse  plight  than  yesterday  when  the  carriers, 
on  account  of  Rocinante’s  misbehavior,  inflicted  on  us 
the  injury  thou  knowest  of ; whence  I conjecture  that 
there  must  be  some  enchanted  Moor  guarding  the 
treasure  of  this  damsel’s  beauty,  and  that  it  is  not  for 
me.” 

‘‘  Nor  for  me  either,”  said  Sancho,  for  more  than 
four  hundred  Moors  have  so  thrashed  me  that  the 
drubbing  of  the  stakes  was  cakes  and  fancy-bread  to 
it.  But  tell  me,  sehor,  what  do  you  call  this  excellent 
and  rare  adventure  that  has  left  us  as  we  are  left  now  ? 
Though  your  worship  was  not  so  badly  off,  having  in 
your  arms  that  incomparable  beauty  you  spoke  of ; but 
I,  what  did  I have,  except  the  heaviest  whacks  I 
think  I had  in  all  my  life?  Unlucky  me  and  the 
mother  that  bore  me  ! for  I am  not  a knight-errant 
and  never  expect  to  be  one,  and  of  all  the  mishaps, 
the  greater  part  falls  to  my  share.” 

‘‘Then  thou  hast  been  thrashed  too?”  said  Don 
Quixote. 

“ Didn’t  I say  so?  worse  luck  to  my  line  ! ” said 
Sancho. 

“ Be  not  distressed,  friend,”  said  Don  Quixote,  “ for 
I will  now  make  the  precious  balsam  with  which  we 
shall  cure  ourselves  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye.” 

By  this  time  the  officer  had  succeeded  in  lighting 
the  lamp,  and  came  in  to  see  the  man  that  he  thought 
had  been  killed ; and  as  Sancho  caught  sight  of  him 
at  the  door,  seeing  him  coming  in  his  shirt,  with  a 
cloth  on  his  head,  and  a lamp  in  his  hand,  and  a very 


320 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


forbidding  countenance,  he  said  to  his  master,  ‘‘  Senor, 
can  it  be  that  this  is  the  enchanted  Moor  coining  back 
to  give  us  more  castigation  if  there  be  any  thing  still 
left  in  the  ink-bottle?” 

“ It  cannot  be  the  Moor,”  answered  Don  Quixote, 
‘‘  for  those  under  enchantment  do  not  let  themselves 
be  seen  by  any  one.” 

‘‘  If  they  don’t  let  themselves  be  seen,  they  let  them- 
selves be  felt,”  said  Sancho  ; if  not,  let  my  shoulders 
speak  to  the  point.” 

“ Mine  could  speak  too,”  said  Don  Quixote,  “ but 
that  is  not  a sufficient  reason  for  believing  that  what 
we  see  is  the  enchanted  Moor.” 

The  officer  came  up,  and  finding  them  engaged  in 
such  a peaceful  conversation,  stood  amazed ; though 
Don  Quixote,  to  be  sure,  still  lay  on  his  back  unable 
to  move  from  pure  pummelling  and  plasters.  The 
officer  turned  to  him  and  said,  Well,  how  goes  it, 
good  man?  ” 

I would  speak  more  politely  if  I were  you,”  re- 
plied Don  Quixote  ; is  it  the  way  of  this  country  to 
address  knights-errant  in  that  style,  you  booby?” 

The  officer  finding  himself  so  disrespectfully  treated 
by  such  a sorry-looking  individual,  lost  his  temper,  and 
raising  the  lamp  full  of  oil,  smote  Don  Quixote  such  a 
blow  with  it  on  the  head  that  he  gave  him  a badly 
broken  pate ; then,  all  being  in  darkness,  he  went  out, 
and  Sancho  Panza  said,  That  is  certainly  the  en- 
chanted Moor,  senor,  and  he  keeps  the  treasure  for 
others,  and  for  us  only  the  cuffs  and  lamp-whacks.” 


CHAPTER  XVII. 


321 


“ That  is  the  truth,”  answered  Don  Quixote,  “ and 
there  is  no  use  in  troubling  one’s  self  about  these  mat- 
ters of  enchantment  or  being  angry  or  vexed  at  them, 
for  as  they  are  invisible  and  visionary  we  shall  find  no 
one  on  whom  to  avenge  ourselves,  do  what  we  may ; 
rise,  Sancho,  if  thou  canst,  and  call  the  alcaide  of  this 
fortress,  and  get  him  to  give  me  a little  oil,  wine,  salt, 
and  rosemary  to  make  the  salutiferous  balsam,  for 
indeed  I believe  I have  great  need  of  it  now,  because 
I am  losing  much  blood  from  the  wound  that  phantom 
gave  me.” 

Sancho  got  up  with  pain  enough  in  his  bones,  and 
went  after  the  innkeeper  in  the  dark,  and  meeting  the 
officer,  who  was  looking  to  see  what  had  become  of 
his  enemy,  he  said  to  him,  Senor,  whoever  you  are, 
do  us  the  favor  and  kindness  to  give  us  a little  rose- 
mary, oil,  salt,  and  wine,  for  it  is  wanted  to  cure  one 
of  the  best  knights-errant  on  earth,  who  lies  on  yonder 
bed  sorely  wounded  by  the  hands  of  the  enchanted 
Moor  that  is  in  this  inn.” 

When  the  officer  heard  him  talk  in  this  way,  he  took 
him  for  a man  out  of  his  senses,  and  as  day  was  now 
beginning  to  break,  he  opened  the  inn  gate,  and  call- 
ing the  host,  he  told  him  what  this  good  man  wanted. 
The  host  furnished  him  with  what  he  required,  and 
Sancho  brought  it  to  Don  Quixote,  who,  with  his  hand 
to  his  head,  was  bewailing  the  pain  of  the  blow  of  the 
lamp,  which  had  done  him  no  more  harm  than  raising 
a couple  of  rather  large  lumps,  and  what  he  fancied 
blood  was  only  the  sweat  that  flowed  from  him  in  his 


322 


nOJV  QUIXOTE. 


sufferings  during  the  late  storm.  To  be  brief,  he  took 
the  materials,  of  which  he  made  a compound,  mixing 
them  all  and  boiling  them  a good  while  until  it 
seemed  to  him  they  had  come  to  perfection.  He  then 
asked  for  some  vial  to  pour  it  into,  and  as  there  was 
not  one  in  the  inn,  he  decided  on  putting  it  into  a tin 
oil-bottle  or  flask  of  which  the  host  made  him  a free 
gift ; and  over  the  flask  he  repeated  more  than  eighty 
paternosters  and  as  many  more  ave-marias,  salves,  and 
credos,  accompanying  each  word  with  a cross  by  way 
of  benediction,  at  all  which  there  were  present  Sancho, 
the  innkeeper,  and  the  offlcer  ; for  the  carrier  was  now 
peacefully  engaged  in  attending  to  the  comfort  of  his 
mules. 

This  being  accomplished,  he  felt  anxious  to  make 
trial  himself,  on  the  spot,  of  the  virtue  of  this  precious 
balsam,  as  he  considered  it,  and  so  he  drank  near  a 
quart  of  what  could  not  be  put  into  the  flask  and 
remained  in  the  pipkin  in  which  it  had  been  boiled ; 
but  scarcely  had  he  done  drinking  when  he  began  to 
vomit  in  such  a way  that  nothing  was  left  in  his 
stomach,  and  with  the  pangs  and  spasms  of  vomiting 
he  broke  into  a profuse  sweat,  on  account  of  which  he 
bade  them  cover  him  up  and  leave  him  alone.  They 
did  so,  and  he  lay  sleeping  more  than  three  hours,  at 
the  end  of  which  he  awoke  and  felt  very  great  bodily 
relief  and  so  much  ease  from  his  bruises  that  he 
thought  himself  quite  cured,  and  verily  believed  he 
had  hit  upon  the  balsam  of  Fierabras ; and  that  with 
this  remedy  he  might  thenceforward,  without  any  fear, 


CHAPTER  XVIL 


323 


face  any  kind  of  destruction,  battle,  or  combat,  how- 
ever perilous  it  might  be. 

Sancho  Panza,  who  also  regarded  the  amendment 
of  his  master  as  miraculous,  begged  him  to  give  him 
what  was  left  in  the  pipkin,  which  was  no  small  quan- 
tity. Don  Quixote  consented,  and  he,  taking  it  with 
both  hands,  in  good  faith  and  with  a better  will,  gulped 
down  and  drained  off  very  little  less  than  his  master. 
But  the  fact  is,  that  the  stomach  of  poor  Sancho  was 
of  necessity  not  so  delicate  as  that  of  his  master,  and 
so,  before  vomiting,  he  was  seized  with  such  gripings 
and  retchings,  and  such  sweats  and  faintness,  that 
verily  and  truly  he  believed  his  last  hour  had  come, 
and  finding  himself  so  racked  and  tormented  he 
cursed  the  balsam  and  the  thief  that  had  given  it  to 
him. 

Don  Quixote  seeing  him  in  this  state  said,  It  is 
my  belief,  Sancho,  that  this  mischief  comes  of  thy  not 
being  dubbed  a knight,  for  I am  persuaded  this  liquor 
cannot  be  good  for  those  who  are  not  so.” 

“ If  your  worship  knew  that,”  returned  Sancho,  — 
“ woe  betide  me  and  all  my  kindred  ! — why  did  you 
let  me  taste  it?  ” 

At  this  moment  the  draught  took  effect,  and  the 
poor  squire  began  to  discharge  both  ways  at  such  a 
rate  that  the  rush  mat  on  which  he  had  thrown  him- 
self and  the  canvas  blanket  he  had  covering  him  were 
fit  for  nothing  afterwards.  He  sweated  and  perspired 
with  such  paroxysms  and  convulsions  that  not  only  he 
himself  but  all  present  thought  his  end  had  come. 


324 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


This  tempest  and  tribulation  lasted  about  two  hours, 
at  the  end  of  which  he  was  left,  not  like  his  master, 
but  so  weak  and  exhausted  that  he  could  not  stand. 
Don  Quixote,  however,  who,  as  has  been  said,  felt 
himself  relieved  and  well,  was  eager  to  take  his  de- 
parture at  once  in  quest  of  adventures,  as  it  seemed 
to  him  that  all  the  time  he  loitered  there  was  a fraud 
upon  the  world  and  those  in  it  who  stood  in  need  of 
his  help  and  protection,  all  the  more  when  he  had  the 
security  and  confidence  his  balsam  afforded  him  ; and 
so,  urged  by  this  impulse,  he  saddled  Rocinante  him- 
self and  put  the  pack-saddle  on  his  squire’s  beast, 
whom  likewise  he  helped  to  dress  and  mount  the  ass  ; 
after  which  he  mounted  his  horse  and  turning  to  a 
corner  of  the  inn  he  laid  hold  of  a pike  that  stood 
there,  to  serve  him  by  way  of  a lance.  All  that  were 
in  the  inn,  who  were  more  than  twenty  persons,  stood 
watching  him  ; the  inn-keeper’s  daughter  was  likewise 
observing  him,  and  he  too  never  took  his  eyes  off  her, 
and  from  time  to  time  fetched  a sigh  that  he  seemed 
to  pluck  up  from  the  depths  of  his  bowels  ; but  they  all 
thought  it  must  be  from  the  i)ain  he  felt  in  his  ribs  ; 
at  any  rate  they  who  had  seen  him  plastered  the  night 
before  thought  so. 

As  soon  as  they  were  both  mounted,  at  the  gate  of 
the  inn,  he  called  to  the  host  and  said  in  a very  grave 
and  measured  voice,  “ Many  and  great  are  the  favors, 
Senor  Alcaide,  that  I have  received  in  this  castle  of 
yours,  and  I remain  under  the  deepest  obligation  to 
be  grateful  to  you  for  them  all  the  days  of  my  life ; if 


CI/APrEK  XVIL 


325 


I can  repay  them  in  avenging  you  of  any  arrogant  foe 
who  may  have  wronged  you,  know  that  my  calling  is 
no  other  than  to  aid  the  weak,  to  avenge  those  who 
suffer  wrong,  and  to  chastise  perfidy.  Search  your 
memory,  and  if  you  find  any  thing  of  this  kind  you 
need  only  tell  me  of  it,  and  I promise  you  by  the 
order  of  knighthood  which  I have  received  to  procure 
you  satisfaction  and  reparation  to  the  utmost  of  your 
desire.” 

The  innkeeper  replied  to  him  with  equal  calmness. 
Sir  Knight,  I do  not  want  your  worship  to  avenge 
me  of  any  wrong,  because  when  any  is  done  me  I can 
take  what  vengeance  seems  good  to  me ; the  only 
thing  I want  is  that  you  pay  me  the  score  that  you 
have  run  up  in  the  inn  last  night,  as  well  for  the  straw 
and  barley  for  your  two  beasts,  as  for  supper  and 
beds.” 

“Then  this  is  an  inn?”  said  Don  Quixote. 

“And  a very  respectable  one,”  said  the  innkeeper. 

“ I have  been  under  a mistake  all  this  time,”  an- 
swered Don  Quixote,  “ for  in  truth  I thought  it  was  a 
castle,  and  not  a bad  one ; but  since  it  appears  that 
it  is  not  a castle  but  an  inn,  all  that  can  be  done  now 
is  that  you  should  excuse  the  payment,  for  I cannot 
contravene  the  rule  of  knights-errant,  of  whom  I know 
as  a fact  (and  up  to  the  present  I have  read  nothing 
to  the  contrary)  that  they  never  paid  for  lodging  or 
any  thing  else  in  the  inn  where  they  might  be ; ' for 

^ Nevertheless  Orlando  in  the  Morgante  Maggiore  is  called  upon  to  leave 
his  horse  in  pledge  for  his  reckoning.  Morg.  Magg,  c.  xxi.  st.  129. 


326 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


any  hospitality  that  might  be  offered  them  is  their  due 
by  law  and  right  in  return  for  the  insufferable  toil  they 
endure  in  seeking  adventures  by  night  and  by  day, 
summer  and  in  winter,  on  foot  and  on  horseback,  in 
in  hunger  and  thirst,  cold  and  heat,  exposed  to  all  the 
inclemencies  of  heaven  and  all  the  hardships  of  earth.” 

“ I have  little  to  do  with  that,”  replied  the  inn- 
keeper ; pay  me  what  you  owe  me,  and  let  us  have 
no  more  talk  or  chivalry,  for  all  I care  about  is  to  get 
to  my  money.” 

“You  are  a stupid,  scurvy  innkeeper,”  said  Don 
Quixote,  and  putting  spurs  to  Rocinante  and  bringing 
his  pike  to  the  slope  he  rode  out  of  the  inn  before 
any  one  could  stop  him,  and  pushed  on  some  distance 
without  looking  to  see  if  his  squire  was  following  him. 

The  innkeeper  when  he  saw  him  go  without  paying 
him  ran  to  get  payment  of  Sancho,  who  said  that  as 
his  master  would  not  pay  neither  would  he,  because, 
being  as  he  was  squire  to  a knight-errant,  the  same 
rule  and  reason  held  good  for  him  as  for  his  master 
with  regard  to  not  paying  any  thing  in  inns  and  hos- 
telries.  At  this  the  innkeeper  waxed  very  wroth,  and 
threatened  if  he  did  not  pay  to  compel  him  in  a way 
that  he  would  not  like.  To  which  Sancho  made 
answer  that  by  the  law  of  chivalry  his  master  had 
received  he  would  not  pay  a rap,'  though  it  cost  him 
his  life  ; for  the  excellent  and  ancient  usage  of  knights- 
errant  was  not  going  to  be  violated  by  him,  nor  should 


* Cornado,  a coin  of  infinitesimal  value,  about  one-sixth  of  a maravedi. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 


327 


the  squires  of  such  as  were  yet  to  come  into  the  world 
ever  complain  of  him  or  reproach  him  with  breaking 
so  just  a law. 

The  ill-luck  of  the  unfortunate  Sancho  so  ordered 
it  that  among  the  company  in  the  inn  there  were  four 
wool-carders  from  Segovia,  three  needle-makers  from 
the  Colt  of  Cordova,  and  two  lodgers  from  the  Fair 
of  Seville,'  lively  fellows,  tender-hearted,  fond  of  a 
joke,  and  playful,  who,  almost  as  if  instigated  and 
moved  by  a common  impulse,  made  up  to  Sancho 
and  dismounted  him  from  his  ass,  while  one  of  them 
went  in  for  the  blanket  of  the  host’s  bed ; but  on 
flinging  him  into  it  they  looked  up,  and  seeing  that 
the  ceiling  was  somewhat  lower  than  what  they  re- 
quired for  their  work,  they  decided  upon  going  out 
into  the  yard,  which  was  bounded  by  the  sky,  and 
there,  putting  Sancho  in  the  middle  of  the  blanket, 
they  began  to  make  sport  with  him  as  they  would 
with  a dog  at  Shrovetide.^  The  cries  of  the  poor 
blanketed  wretch  were  so  loud  that  they  reached  the 
ears  of  his  master,  who,  halting  to  listen  attentively, 
was  persuaded  that  some  new  adventure  was  coming, 
until  he  clearly  perceived  that  it  was  his  squire  who 
uttered  them.  Wheeling  about  he  came  up  to  the 
inn  with  a laborious  gallop,  and  finding  it  shut  went 


1 The  “ Fair  ” was  a low  quarter  in  Seville. 

2 “ The  roome  was  high-roofed  and  fitted  for  their  purpose.  . . . They 
began  to  blanket  me  and  to  toss  me  up  in  the  air  as  they  used  to  doe  to 
dogges  at  Shrovetide.”  — Aleman’s  Guzman  de  Alfarache,  Pt.  I.  Bk.  III. 
c.  i.  ^James  Mabbe’s  translation).  As  the  First  Part  of  Guzman  was  pub- 
lished in  1599,  it  may  have  suggested  the  scene  to  Cervantes. 


328 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


round  it  to  see  if  he  could  find  some  way  of  getting 
in ; but  as  soon  as  he  came  to  the  wall  of  the  yard, 
which  was  not  very  high,  he  discovered  the  game  that 
was  being  played  with  his  squire.  He  saw  him  rising 
and  falling  in  the  air  with  such  grace  and  nimbleness 
that,  had  his  rage  allowed  him,  it  is  my  belief  he 
would  have  laughed.  He  tried  to  climb  from  his 
horse  on  to  the  top  of  the  wall,  but  he  was  so  bruised 
and  battered  that  he  could  not  even  dismount ; and 
so  from  the  back  of  his  horse  he  began  to  utter  such 
maledictions  and  objurgations  against  those  who  were 
blanketing  Sancho  as  it  would  be  impossible  to  write 
down  accurately  : they,  however,  did  not  stay  their 
laughter  or  their  work  for  this,  nor  did  the  flying 
Sancho  cease  his  lamentations,  mingled  now  with 
threats,  now  with  entreaties,  but  all  to  little  purpose, 
or  none  at  all,  until  from  pure  weariness  they  left  off. 
They  then  brought  him  his  ass,  and  mounting  him 
on  top  of  it  they  put  his  jacket  round  him  ; and  the 
compassionate  Maritornes,  seeing  him  so  exhausted, 
thought  fit  to  refresh  him  with  a jug  of  water,  and 
that  it  might  be  all  the  cooler  she  fetched  it  from  the 
well.  Sancho  took  it,  and  as  he  was  raising  it  to  his 
mouth  he  was  stopped  by  the  cries  of  his  master 
exclaiming,  Sancho,  my  son,  drink  not  water ; drink 
it  not,  my  son,  for  it  will  kill  thee ; see,  here  I have 
the  blessed  balsam  (and  he  held  up  the  flask  of 
liquor),  and  with  drinking  two  drops  of  it  thou  wilt 
certainly  be  restored.” 

At  these  words  Sancho  turned  his  eyes  asquint,  and 


Lismy 
or  THE 

‘'NIVtNSIT)'  Of  ILLI^0IS 


CHAPTER  XVn. 


329 


in  a still  louder  voice  said,  ‘‘  Can  it  be  your  worship 
has  forgotten  that  I am  not  a knight,  or  do  you  want 
me  to  end  by  vomiting  up  what  bowels  I have  left 
after  last  night?  Keep  your  liquor  in  the  name  of 
all  the  devils,  and  leave  me  to  myself!”  and  at  one 
and  the  same  instant  he  left  off  talking  and  began 
drinking ; but  as  at  the  first  sup  he  perceived  it  was 
water  he  did  not  care  to  go  on  with  it,  and  begged 
Maritornes  to  fetch  him  some  wine,  which  she  did 
with  right  good  will,  and  paid  for  it  with  her  own 
money ; for  indeed  they  say  of  her  that,  though  she 
was  in  that  line  of  life,  there  was  some  faint  and 
distant  resemblance  to  a Christian  about  her.  When 
Sancho  had  done  drinking  he  dug  his  heels  into  his 
ass,  and  the  gate  of  the  inn  being  thrown  open  he 
passed  out  very  well  pleased  at  having  paid  nothing 
and  carried  his  point,  though  it  had  been  at  the 
expense  of  his  usual  sureties,  his  shoulders.  ' It  is  true 
that  the  innkeeper  detained  his  alforjas  in  payment 
of  what  was  owing  to  him,  but  Sancho  took  his  de- 
parture in  such  a flurry  that  he  never  missed  them. 
The  innkeeper,  as  soon  as  he  saw  him  off,  wanted  to 
bar  the  gate  close,  but  the  blanketers  would  not  agree 
to  it,  for  they  were  fellows  who  would  not  have  cared 
two  farthings  for  Don  Quixote,  even  had  he  been 
really  one  of  the  knights-errant  of  the  Round  Table. 


330 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

TN  WHICH  IS  RELATED  THE  DISCOURSE  SANCHO  PANZA 

HELD  WITH  HIS  MASTER,  DON  QUIXOTE,  TOGETHER 

WITH  OTHER  ADVENTURES  WORTH  RELATING. 

Sancho  reached  his  master  so  limp  and  faint  that 
he  could  not  urge  on  his  beast.  When  Don  Quixote 
saw  the  state  he  was  in  he  said,  I have  now  come 
to  the  conclusion,  good  Sancho,  that  this  castle  or  inn 
is  beyond  a doubt  enchanted,  because  those  who  have 
so  atrociously  diverted  themselves  with  thee,  what  can 
they  be  but  phantoms  or  beings  of  another  world? 
and  I hold  this  confirmed  by  having  noticed  that 
when  I was  by  the  wall  of  the  yard  witnessing  the 
acts  of  thy  sad  tragedy,  it  was  out  of  my  power  to 
mount  upon  it,  nor  could  I even  dismount  from 
Rocinante,  because  they  no  doubt  had  me  enchanted ; 
for  I swear  to  thee  by  the  faith'  of  what  I am  that  if 
I had  been  able  to  climb  up  or  dismount,  I would 
have  avenged  thee  in  such  a way  that  those  braggart 
thieves  would  have  remembered  their  freak  forever, 
even  though  in  so  doing  I knew  that  I contravened 
the  laws  of  chivalry,  which,  as  I have  often  told  thee, 
do  not  permit  a knight  to  lay  hands  on  him  who  is 
not  one,  save  in  case  of  urgent  and  great  necessity  in 
defence  of  his  own  life  and  person.” 


CHAPTER  XVII/. 


33 


“ I would  have  avenged  myself  too  if  I could,”  said 
Sancho,  “ whether  I had  been  dubbed  knight  or  not, 
but  I could  not ; though  for  my  part  I am  persuaded 
those  who  amused  themselves  with  me  were  not  phan- 
toms or  enchanted  men,  as  your  worship  says,  but 
men  of  flesh  and  bone  like  ourselves ; and  they  all 
had  their  names,  for  I heard  them  name  them  when 
they  were  tossing  me,  and  one  was  called  Pedro 
Martinez,  and  another  Tenorio  Hernandez,  and  the 
innkeeper,  I heard,  was  called  Juan  Palomeque  the 
Left-handed ; so  that,  sehor,  your  not  being  able  to 
leap  over  the  wall  of  the  yard  or  dismount  from  your 
horse  came  of  something  else  besides  enchantments ; 
and  what  I make  out  clearly  from  all  this  is,  that  these 
adventures  we  go  seeking  will  in  the  end  lead  us  into 
such  misadventures  that  we  shall  not  know  which  is 
our  right  foot ; and  that  the  best  and  wisest  thing, 
according  to  my  small  wits,  would  be  for  us  to  return 
home,  now  that  it  is  harvest-time,  and  attend  to  our 
business,  and  give  over  wandering  from  Zeca  to  Mecca 
and  from  pail  to  bucket,  as  the  saying  is.”  " 

“ How  little  thou  knowest  about  chivalry,  Sancho,” 
replied  Don  Quixote ; ‘‘  hold  thy  peace  and  have 
patience ; the  day  will  come  when  thou  shalt  see 
with  thine  own  eyes  what  an  honorable  thing  it  is  to 
wander  in  the  pursuit  of  this  calling ; nay,  tell  me, 

^ Proverbial  expression  (47)  — “ Andar  de  Ceca  en  Meca  y de  zoca  en 
colodra  ” — somewhat  like  our  phrase,  “ from  post  to  pillar.”  The  Ceca 
(properly  a mint  or  a shrine)  was  the  name  given  to  part  of  the  Great  Mosque 
of  Cordova,  once  second  to  Mecca  only  as  a resort  of  pilgrims.  Zoca  properly 
means  a wooden  shoe,  but  here  a vessel  hollowed  out  of  wood. 


332 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


what  greater  pleasure  can  there  be  in  the  world,  or 
what  delight  can  equal  that  of  winning  a battle,  and 
triumphing  over  one’s  enemy?  None,  beyond  all 
doubt.” 

‘‘Very  likely,”  answered  Sancho,  “ though  I do  not 
know  it;  all  I know  is  that  since  we  have  been 
knights-errant,  or  since  your  worship  has  been  one 
(for  I have  no  right  to  reckon  myself  one  of  so 
honorable  a number),  we  have  never  won  any  battle 
except  the  one  with  the  Biscayan,  and  even  out  of 
that  your  worship  came  with  half  an  ear  and  half  a 
helmet  the  less ; and  from  that  till  now  it  has  been 
all  cudgellings  and  more  cudgellings,  cuffs  and  more 
cuffs,  I getting  the  blanketing  over  and  above,  and 
falling  in  with  enchanted  persons  on  whom  I cannot 
avenge  myself  so  as  to  know  what  the  delight,  as 
your  worship  calls  it,  of  conquering  an  enemy  is 
like.” 

“That  is  what  vexes  me,  and  what  ought  to  vex 
thee,  Sancho,”  replied  Don  Quixote;  “but  hence- 
forward I will  endeavor  to  have  at  hand  some  sword 
made  by  such  craft  that  no  kind  of  enchantments  can 
take  effect  upon  him  who  carries  it,  and  it  is  even 
possible  that  fortune  may  procure  for  me  that  which 
belonged  to  Amadis  when  he  was  called  ‘The  Knight 
of  the  Burning  Sword,’  ‘ which  was  one  of  the  best 
swords  that  ever  knight  in  the  world  possessed,  for, 
besides  having  the  said  virtue,  it  cut  like  a razor,  and 


* Amadis  of  Greece,  not  Amadis  of  Gaul. 


CI/APTER  XV///. 


333 


there  was  no  armor,  however  strong  and  enchanted  it 
might  be,  that  could  resist  it.” 

“ Such  is  my  luck,”  said  Sancho,  ‘‘  that  even  if  that 
happened  and  your  worship  found  some  such  sword, 
it  would,  like  the  balsam,  turn  out  serviceable  and 
good  for  dubbed  knights  only,  and  as  for  the  squires, 
they  might  sup  sorrow.” 

“Fear  not  that,  Sancho,”  said  Don  Quixote: 
“ Heaven  will  deal  better  by  thee.”  . 

Thus  talking,  Don  Quixote  and  his  squire  were 
going  along,  when,  on  the  road  they  were  following, 
Don  Quixote  perceived  approaching  them  a large  and 
thick  cloud  of  dust,  on  seeing  which  he  turned  to 
Sancho  and  said,  “This  is  the  day,  O Sancho,  on 
which  will  be  seen  the  boon  my  fortune  is  reserving 
for  me ; this,  I say,  is  the  day  on  which  as  much  as 
on  any  other  shall  be  displayed  the  might  of  my  arm, 
and  on  which  I shall  do  deeds  that  shall  remain 
written  in  the  book  of  fame  for  all  ages  to  come. 
Seest  thou  that  cloud  of  dust  which  rises  yonder? 
Well,  then,  all  that  is  churned  up  ^ by  a vast  army 
composed  of  various  and  countless  nations  that  comes 
marching  there.” 

“ According  to  that  there  must  be  two,”  said 
Sancho,  “for  on  this  opposite  side  also  there  rises 
just  such  another  cloud  of  dust.” 

Don  Quixote  turned  to  look  and  found  that  it  was 
true,  and  rejoicing  exceedingly,  he  concluded  that 

I The  word  in  the  original  is  cuajada  — “curdled”  — which  Clemencin 
objects  to  as  obscure,  and  would  replace  by  causada  — “ caused.” 


334 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


they  were  two  armies  about  to  engage  and  encounter 
in  the  midst  of  that  broad  plain ; for  at  all  times  and 
seasons  his  fancy  was  full  of  the  battles,  enchant- 
ments, adventures,  crazy  feats,  loves,  and  defiances 
that  are  recorded  in  the  books  of  chivalry,  and  every 
thing  he  said,  thought,  or  did  had  reference  to  such 
things.  Now  the  cloud  of  dust  he  had  seen  was 
raised  by  two  great  droves  of  sheep  coming  along  the 
same  road  in  opposite  directions,  which,  because  of 
the  dust,  did  not  become  visible  until  they  drew  near, 
but  Don  Quixote  asserted  so  positively  that  they  were 
armies  that  Sancho  was  led  to  believe  it  and  say, 
‘‘Well,  and  what  are  we  to  do,  senor?” 

“What?”  said  Don  Quixote:  “give  aid  and  as- 
sistance to  the  weak  and  those  who  need  it ; and  thou 
must  know,  Sancho,  that  this  which  comes  opposite 
to  us  is  conducted  and  led  by  the  mighty  emperor 
Alifanfaron,  lord  of  the  great  isle  of  Trapobana ; this 
other  that  marches  behind  me  is  that  of  his  enemy 
the  king  of  the  Garamantas,  Pentapolin  of  the  Bare 
Arm,  for  he  always  goes  into  battle  with  his  right 
arm  bare.”  ' 

“But  why  are  these  two  lords  such  enemies?” 
asked  Sancho. 

“ They  are  at  enmity,”  replied  Don  Quixote,  “ be- 
cause this  Alifanfaron  is  a furious  pagan  and  is  in  love 
with  the  daugliter  of  Pentapolin,  who  is  a very  beau- 
tiful and  moreover  gracious  lady,  and  a Christian,  and 

^ Suero  de  Quinones,  the  hero  of  the  Paso  honroso  at  the  bridge  of  Orbigo 
in  1434,  used  to  fight  against  the  Moors  with  his  right  arm  bare. 


liefiARV 

OrTH£ 

university  Of  ILUNOIS 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 


335 


her  father  is  unwilling  to  bestow  her  upon  the  pagan 
king  unless  he  first  abandons  the  religion  of  his  false 
prophet  Mahomet,  and  adopts  his  own.” 

“ By  my  beard,”  said  Sancho,  “ but  Pentapolin  does 
quite  right,  and  I will  help  him  as  much  as  I can.” 

“ In  that  thou  wilt  do  what  is  thy  duty,  Sancho,” 
said  Don  Quixote ; “ for  to  engage  in  battles  of  this 
sort  it  is  not  requisite  to  be  a dubbed  knight.” 

That  I can  well  understand,”  answered  Sancho ; 
“but  where  shall  we  put  this  ass  where  we  may  be 
sure  to  find  him  after  the  fray  is  over?  for  I believe  it 
has  not  been  the  custom  so  far  to  go  into  battle  on  a 
beast  of  this  kind.” 

“That  is  true,”  said  Don  Quixote,  “and  what  you 
had  best  do  with  him  is  to  leave  him  to  take  his 
chance  whether  he  be  lost  or  not,  for  the  horses  we 
shall  have  when  we  come  out  victors  will  be  so  many 
that  even  Rocinante  will  run  a risk  of  being  changed 
for  another.  But  attend  to  me  and  observe,  for  I 
wish  to  give  thee  some  account  of  the  chief  knights 
who  accompany  these  two  armies ; and  that  thou 
mayest  the  better  see  and  mark,  let  us  withdraw  to 
that  hillock  which  rises  yonder,  whence  both  armies 
may  be  seen.” 

They  did  so,  and  placed  themselves  on  a rising 
ground  from  which  the  two  droves  that  Don  Quixote 
made  armies  of  might  have  been  plainly  seen  if  the 
clouds  of  dust  they  raised  had  not  obscured  them  and 
blinded  the  sight ; nevertheless,  seeing  in  his  imagina- 
tion what  he  did  not  see  and  what  did  not  exist,  he 


336 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


began  thus  in  a loud  voice  : “ That  knight  whom  thou 
seest  yonder  in  yellow  armor,  who  bears  upon  his 
shield  a lion  crowned  crouching  at  the  feet  of  a dam- 
sel, is  the  valiant  Laurcalco,  lord  of  the  Silver  Bridge ; 
that  one  in  armor  with  flowers  of  gold,  who  bears  on 
his  shield  three  crowns  argent  on  an  azure  field,  is  the 
dreaded  Micocolembo,  grand  duke  of  Quirocia ; that 
other  of  gigantic  frame,  on  his  right  hand,  is  the  ever 
dauntless  Brandabarbaran  de  Boliche,  lord  of  the 
three  Arabias,  who  for  armor  wears  that  serpent  skin, 
and  has  for  shield  a gate  which,  according  to  tradi- 
tion, is  one  of  those  of  the  temple  that  Samson 
brought  to  the  ground  when  by  his  death  he  revenged 
himself  upon  his  enemies ; but  turn  thine  eyes  to  the 
other  side,  and  thou  shall  see  in  front  and  in  the  van 
of  this  other  army  the  ever  victorious  and  never  van- 
quished Timonel  of  Carcajona,  prince  of  New  Biscay, 
who  comes  in  armor  with  arms  quartered  azure,  vert, 
argent,  and  or,  and  bears  on  his  shield  a cat  or  on  a 
field  tawny  with  a motto  which  says  Afiati,  which  is 
the  beginning  of  the  name  of  his  lady,  who  according 
to  report  is  the  peerless  Miaulina,  daughter  of  the 
duke  Alfeniqu^n  of  the  Algarve ; the  other,  who  bur- 
dens and  presses  the  loins  of  that  powerful  charger 
and  bears  arms  white  as  snow  and  a shield  Ifiank  and 
without  any  device,  is  a novice  knight,  a Frenchman 
by  birth,  Pierres  Papin  by  name,  lord  of  the  baronies 
of  Utrique ; that  other,  who  with  iron-shod  heels 
strikes  the  flanks  of  that  nimble  party-colored  zebra, 
and  for  arms  bears  azure  cups,  is  the  mighty  duke  of 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 


337 


Nervia,  Espartafilardo  del  Bosque,  who  bears  for  de- 
vice on  his  shield  an  asparagus  plant  with  a motto  in 
Castilian  that  says,  ‘ Rasirea  mi  suertei  ” ^ And  so  he 
went  on  naming  a number  of  knights  of  one  squadron 
or  the  other  out  of  his  imagination,  and  to  all  he 
assigned  off-hand  their  arms,  colors,  devices,  and 
mottoes,  carried  away  by  the  illusions  of  his  unheard- 
of  craze  ; and  without  a pause,  he  continued,  ‘‘  People 
of  divers  nations  compose  this  squadron  in  front ; 
here  are  those  that  drink  of  the  sweet  waters  of  the 
famous  Xanthus,  those  that  scour  the  woody  Massilian 
plains,  those  that  sift  the  pure  fine  gold  of  Arabia 
Felix,  those  that  enjoy  the  famed  cool  banks  of  the 
crystal  Thermodon,  those  that  in  many  and  various 
ways  divert  the  streams  of.  the  golden  Pactolus,  the 
Numidians,  faithless  in  their  promises,  the  Persians 
renowned  in  archery,  the  Parthians  and  the  Medes 
that  fight  as  they  fly,  the  Arabs  that  ever  shift  their 
dwellings,  the  Scythians  as  cruel  as  they  are  fair,  the 
Ethiopians  with  pierced  lips,  and  an  infinity  of  other 
nations  whose  features  I recognize  and  descry,  though 
I cannot  recall  their  names.  In  this  other  squadron 
there  come  those  that  drink  of  the  crystal  streams  of 
the  olive-bearing  Beds,  those  that  make  smooth  their 
countenances  with  the  water  of  the  ever  rich  and 
golden  Tagus,  those  that  rejoice  in  the  fertilizing  flow 

* Rastrear  means  properly  to  track  by  following  the  footprints,  and 
hence  to  keep  close  to  the  ground;  the  motto,  therefore,  is  probably  meant 
to  have  a double  signification,  either  “ in  Fortune’s  footsteps”  or  “ my  for- 
tune creeps  on  the  ground,”  in  allusion  to  the  asparagus,  which  is  a low- 
growing  plant. 


338 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


of  the  divine  Genii,  those  that  roam  the  Tartesian 
plains  ^ abounding  in  pasture,  those  that  take  their 
pleasure  in  the  elysian  meadows  of  Jerez,  the  rich 
Manchegans  crowned  with  ruddy  ears  of  corn,  the 
wearers  of  iron,  old  relics  of  the  Gothic  race,  those 
that  bathe  in  the  Pisuerga  renowned  for  its  gentle 
current,  those  that  feed  their  herds  along  the  spread- 
ing pastures  of  the  winding  Guadiana  famed  for  its 
hidden  course,^  those  that  tremble  with  the  cold  of 
the  pine-clad  Pyrenees  or  the  dazzling  snows  of  the 
lofty  Apennine ; in  a word,  as  many  as  all  Europe 
includes  and  contains.” 

Good  God  ! what  a number  of  countries  and  nations 
he  named  ! giving  to  each  its  proper  attributes  with 
marvellous  readiness ; brimful  and  saturated  with  what 
he  had  read  in  his  lying  books  ! Sancho  Panza  hung 
upon  his  words  without  speaking,  and  from  time  to 
time  turned  to  try  if  he  could  see  the  knights  and 
giants  his  master  was  describing,  and  as  he  could  not 
make  out  one  of  them  he  said  to  him,  “ Sehor,  devil 
take  it  if  there’s  a sign  of  any  man  you  talk  of,  knight 
or  giant,  in  the  whole  thing ; maybe  it’s  all  enchant- 
ment, like  the  phantoms  last  night.” 

“ How  canst  thou  say  that  ! ” answered  Don  Qui- 
xote ; “ dost  thou  not  hear  the  neighing  of  the  steeds, 
the  braying  of  the  trumpets,  the  roll  of  the  drums?  ” 


^ From  Tartessus,  a city  of  Betica,  supposed  to  have  been  situated  somc- 
tvhere  in  the  neighborhood  of  Tarifa. 

2 In  part  of  its  course  through  La  Mancha  the  Guadiana  flows  under- 
ground. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 


339 


I hear  nothing  but  a great  bleating  of  ewes  and 
sheep,”  said  Sancho ; which  was  true,  for  by  this  time 
the  two  flocks  had  come  close. 

^‘The  fear  thou  art  in,  Sancho,”  said  Don  Quixote, 
prevents  thee  from  seeing  or  hearing  correctly,  for 
one  of  the  effects  of  fear  is  to  derange  the  senses  and 
make  tilings  appear  different  from  what  they  are  ; if 
thou  art  in  such  fear,  withdraw  to  one  side  and  leave 
me  to  myself,  for  alone  I suffice  to  bring  victory  to 
that  side  to  which  I shall  give  my  aid ; ” and  so  saying 
he  gave  Rocinante  the  spur,  and  putting  the  lance  in 
rest,  shot  down  the  slope  like  a thunderbolt.  Sancho 
shouted  after  him,  crying,  Come  back,  Sehor  Don 
Quixote ; I vow  to  God  they  are  sheep  and  ewes  you 
are  charging  ! Come  back  ! Unlucky  the  father  that 
begot  me  ! what  madness  is  this  ! Look,  there  is  no 
giant,  nor  knight,  nor  cats,  nor  arms,  nor  shields  quar- 
tered or  whole,  nor  cups  azure  or  bedevilled.  What 
are  you  about?  Sinner  that  I am  before  God  1 ” But 
not  for  all  these  entreaties  did  Don  Quixote  turn  back ; 
on  the  contrary  he  went  on  shouting  out,  Ho, 
knights,  ye  who  follow  and  fight  under  the  banners  of 
the  valiant  emperor  Pentapolin  of  the  Bare  Arm,  fol- 
low me  all ; ye  shall  see  how  easily  I shall  give  him  his 
revenge  over  his  enemy  Alifanfaron  of  Trapobana.” 

So  saying,  he  dashed  into  the  midst  of  the  squadron 
of  ewes,  and  began  spearing  them  with  as  much  spirit 
and  intrepidity  as  if  he  were  transfixing  mortal  enemies 
in  earnest.  The  shepherds  and  trovers  accompanying 
the  flock  shouted  to  him  to  desist ; but  seeing  it  was 


340 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


no  use,  they  ungirt  their  slings  and  began  to  salute  his 
ears  with  stones  as  big  as  one’s  fist.  Don  Quixote 
gave  no  heed  to  the  stones,  but,  letting  drive  right  and 
left,  kept  saying,  ‘‘Where  art  thou,  proud  Alifanfaron? 
Come  before  me  ; I am  a single  knight  who  would  fain 
prove  thy  prowess  hand  to  hand,  and  make  thee  yield 
thy  life  a penalty  for  the  wrong  thou  dost  to  the 
valiant  Pentapolin  Garamanta.”  Here  came  a sugar- 
plum from  the  brook  that  struck  him  on  the  side  and 
buried  a couple  of  ribs  in  his  body.  Feeling  himself 
so  smitten,  he  imagined  liimself  slain  or  badly  wounded 
for  certain,  and  recollecting  his  liquor  he  drew  out  his 
flask,  and  putting  it  to  his  mouth  began  to  pour  the 
contents  into  his  stomach  ; but  ere  he  had  succeeded 
in  swallowing  what  seemed  to  him  enough,  there  came 
another  almond  which  struck  him  on  the  hand  and  on 
the  flask  so  fairly  that  it  smashed  it  to  pieces,  knock- 
ing three  or  four  teeth  and  grinders  out  of  his  mouth 
in  its  course,  and  sorely  crushing  two  fingers  of  his 
hand.  Such  was  the  force  of  the  first  blow  and  of  the 
second,  that  the  poor  knight  in  spite  of  himself  came 
down  backwards  off  his  horse.  The  shepherds  came 
up,  and  felt  sure  they  had  killed  him ; so  in  all  haste 
they  collected  their  flock  together,  took  up  the  dead 
beasts,  of  which  there  were  more  than  seven,  and  made 
off  without  waiting  to  ascertain  any  thing  further. 

All  this  time  Sancho  stood  on  tlie  hill  watching  the 
crazy  feats  his  master  was  performing,  and  tearing  his 
beard  and  cursing  the  hour  and  the  occasion  when 
fortune  had  made  him  accjuainted  with  him.  Seeing 


CHAPTER  XVI  IT 


34 


him,  then,  brought  to  the  ground,  and  that  the  shep- 
herds had  taken  themselves  off,  he  came  down  the  hill 
and  ran  to  him  and  found  him  in  very  bad  case, 
though  not  unconscious ; and  said  he,  “ Did  I not  tell 
you  to  come  back,  Sehor  Don  Quixote ; and  that  what 
you  were  going  to  attack  were  not  armies  but  droves 
of  sheep?  ” 

That’s  how  that  thief  of  a sage,‘  my  enemy,  can 
alter  and  falsify  things,”  answered  Don  Quixote  ; thou 
must  know,  Sancho,  that  it  is  a very  easy  matter  for 
those  of  his  sort  to  make  us  take  what  form  they 
choose  ; and  this  malignant  being  who  persecutes  me, 
envious  of  the  glory  he  knew  I was  to  win  in  this  battle, 
has  turned  the  squadrons  of  the  enemy  into  droves  of 
sheep.  At  any  rate,  do  this  much,  I beg  of  thee,  San- 
cho, to  undeceive  thyself,  and  see  that  what  I say  is 
true  ; mount  thy  ass  and  follow  them  quietly,  and  thou 
shalt  see  that  when  they  have  gone  some  little  distance 
from  this  they  will  return  to  their  original  shape  and, 
ceasing  to  be  sheep,  become  men  in  all  respects  as  I 
described  them  to  thee  at  first.  But  go  not  just  yet, 
for  I want  thy  help  and  assistance ; come  hither  and 
see  how  many  of  my  teeth  and  grinders  are  missing, 
for  I feel  as  if  there  was  not  one  left  in  my  mouth.” 

Sancho  came  so  close  that  he  almost  put  his  eyes 
into  his  mouth ; now  just  at  that  moment  the  balsam 
had  acted  on  the  stomach  of  Don  Quixote,  so,  at  the 
very  instant  when  Sancho  came  to  examine  his  mouth. 


See  chapter  vii.  s 


342 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


he  discharged  all  its  contents  with  more  force  than  a 
musket,  and  full  into  the  beard  of  the  compassionate 
squire. 

“ Holy  Mary  ! ” cried  Sancho,  ‘‘what  is  this  that  has 
happened  me  ? Clearly  this  sinner  is  mortally  wounded, 
as  he  vomits  blood  from  the  mouth ; ” but  considering 
the  matter  a little  more  closely  he  perceived  by  the 
color,  taste,  and  smell,  that  it  was  not  blood  but  the 
balsam  from  the  flask  which  he  had  seen  him  drink ; 
and  he  was  taken  with  such  a loathing  that  his  stomach 
turned,  and  he  vomited  up  his  inside  over  his  very 
master,  and  both  were  left  in  a precious  state.  Sancho 
ran  to  his  ass  to  get  something  wherewith  to  clean 
himself,  and  relieve  his  master,  out  of  his  alforjas ; but 
not  finding  them,  he  well-nigh  took  leave  of  his  senses, 
and  cursed  himself  anew,  and  in  his  heart  resolved  to 
quit  his  master  and  return  home,  even  though  he  for- 
feited the  wages  of  his  service  and  all  hopes  of  the 
government  of  the  promised  island. 

Don  Quixote  now  rose,  and  putting  his  left  hand  to 
his  mouth  to  keep  his  teeth  from  falling  out  altogether, 
with  the  other  he  laid  hold  of  the  bridle  of  Rocinante, 
who  had  never  stirred  from  his  master's  side  — so  loyal 
and  well-behaved  was  he  — and  betook  himself  to 
where  the  squire  stood  leaning  over  his  ass  with  his 
hand  to  his  cheek,  like  one  in  deep  dejection.  Seeing 
him  in  this  mood,  looking  so  sad,  Don  Quixote  said  to 
him,  “ Bear  in  mind,  Sancho,  that  one  man  is  no  more 
than  another,  unless  he  does  more  than  another ; all 
these  tempests  that  fall  upon  us  are  signs  that  fair 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 


343 


weather  is  coming  shortly,  and  that  things  will  go  well 
with  us,  for  it  is  impossible  for  good  or  evil  to  last  for- 
ever ; and  hence  it  follows  that  the  evil  having  lasted 
long,  the  good  must  be  now  nigh  at  hand ; so  thou 
must  not  distress  thyself  at  the  misfortunes  which  hap- 
pen to  me,  since  thou  hast  no  share  in  them.” 

“How  have  I not?”  replied  Sancho ; “was  he 
whom  they  blanketed  yesterday  perchance  any  other 
than  my  father’s  son?  and  the  alforjas  that  are  miss- 
ing to-day  with  all  my  treasures,  did  they  belong  to 
any  other  but  myself?  ” 

“What!  are  the  alforjas  missing,  Sancho?”  said 
Don  Quixote. 

“ Yes,  they  are  missing,”  answered  Sancho. 

“ In  that  case  we  have  nothing  to  eat  to-day,”  re- 
plied Don  Quixote. 

“ It  would  be  so,”  answered  Sancho,  “if  there  were 
none  of  the  herbs  your  worship  says  you  know  in  these 
meadows,  those  with  which  knights- errant  as  unlucky 
as  your  worship  are  wont  to  supply  such-like  short- 
comings.” 

“ For  all  that,”  answered  Don  Quixote,  “ I would 
rather  have  just  now  a quarter  of  bread,  or  a loaf  and 
a couple  of  pilchards’  heads,  than  all  the  herbs  de- 
scribed by  Dioscorides,  even  with  Doctor  Laguna’s 
notes. ^ Nevertheless,  Sancho  the  Good,  mount  thy 
beast  and  come  along  with  me,  for  God,  who  provides 
for  all  things,  will  not  fail  us  (more  especially  when 

* Dr.  Andres  Laguna,  who  translated  Dioscorides  into  Spanish  with 
copious  notes  in  1570. 


344 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


we  are  so  active  in  his  service  as  we  are),  since  he 
fails  not  the  midges  of  the  air,  nor  the  grubs  of  the 
earth,  nor  the  tadpoles  of  the  water,  and  is  so  merciful 
that  he  maketh  his  sun  to  rise  on  the  evil  and  on  the 
good,  and  sendeth  rain  on  the  just  and  on  the  unjust.” 

“Your  worship  would  make  a better  preacher  than 
knight-errant,”  said  Sancho. 

“ Knights-errant  knew  and  ought  to  know  every 
thing,  Sancho,”  said  Don  Quixote;  “for  there  were 
knights-errant  in  former  times  as  well  qualified  to  de- 
liver a sermon  or  discourse  in  the  middle  of  a high- 
way, as  if  they  had  graduated  in  the  University  of 
Paris ; whereby  we  may  see  that  the  lance  has  never 
blunted  the  pen,  nor  the  pen  the  lance.”  ' 

“ Well,  be  it  as  your  worship  says,”  replied  Sancho  ; 
“ let  us  be  off  now  and  find  some  place  of  shelter  for 
the  night,  and  God  grant  it  may  be  somewhere  where 
there  are  no  blankets,  nor  blanketeers,  nor  phantoms, 
nor  enchanted  Moors ; for  if  there  are,  may  the  devil 
take  the  whole  concern.” 

“Ask  that  of  God,  my  son,”  said  Don  Quixote; 
“ and  do  thou  lead  on  where  thou  wilt,  for  this  time  I 
leave  our  lodging  to  thy  choice  ; but  reach  me  here  thy 
hand,  and  feel  with  thy  finger,  and  find  out  how  many 
of  my  teeth  and  grinders  are  missing  from  this  right 
side  of  the  upper  jaw,  for  it  is  there  I feel  the  pain.” 

Sancho  put  in  his  fingers,  and  feeling  about  asked 
him,  “ How  many  grinders  used  your  worship  have  on 
this  side?” 


Prov.  125. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 


345 


“Four,”  replied  Don  Quixote,  “besides  the  back- 
tooth,  all  whole  and  quite  sound.” 

“ Mind  what  you  are  saying,  sehor,”  said  Sancho. 

“ I say  four,  if  not  five,”  answered  Don  Quixote, 
“ for  never  in  my  life  have  I had  tooth  or  grinder 
drawn,  nor  has  any  fallen  out  or  been  destroyed  by 
any  decay  or  rheum.” 

“ Well,  then,”  said  Sancho,  “ in  this  lower  side  your 
worship  has  no  more  than  two  grinders  and  a half, 
and  in  the  upper  neither  a half  nor  any  at  all,  for  it  is 
all  as  smooth  as  the  palm  of  my  hand.” 

“ Luckless  that  I am  ! ” said  Don  Quixote,  hearing 
the  sad  news  his  squire  gave  him  ; “ I had  rather  they 
had  despoiled  me  of  an  arm,  so  it  were  not  the  sword- 
arm  ; for  I tell  thee,  Sancho,  a mouth  without  teeth 
is  like  a mill  without  a millstone,  and  a tooth  is  much 
more  to  be  prized  than  a diamond ; but  we  who  pro- 
fess the  austere  order  of  chivalry  are  liable  to  all  this. 
Mount,  friend,  and  lead  the  way,  and  I will  follow 
thee  at  whatever  pace  thou  wilt.” 

Sancho  did  as  he  bade  him,  and  proceeded  in  the 
direction  in  which  he  thought  he  might  find  refuge 
without  quitting  the  high  road,  which  was  there  very 
much  frequented.  As  they  went  along,  then,  at  a 
slow  pace — for  the  pain  in  Don  Quixote’s  jaws  kept 
him  uneasy  and  ill-disposed  for  speed  — Sancho 
thought  it  well  to  amuse  and  divert  him  by  talk  of 
some  kind,  and  among  the  things  he  said  to  him  was 
that  which  will  be  told  in  the  following  chapter. 


346 


DON  QUIXOTE, 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

OF  THE  SHREWD  DISCOURSE  WHICH  SANCHO  HELD  WITH 
HIS  MASTER,  AND  OF  THE  ADVENTURE  THAT  BEFELL 
HIM  WITH  A DEAD  BODY,  TOGETHER  WITH  OTHER 
NOTABLE  OCCURRENCES. 

“ It  seems  to  me,  senor,  that  all  these  mishaps  that 
have  befallen  us  of  late  have  been  without  any  doubt 
a punishment  for  the  offence  committed  by  your  wor- 
ship against  the  order  of  chivalry  in  not  keeping  the 
oath  you  made  not  to  eat  bread  off  a table-cloth  or 
embrace  the  queen,  and  all  the  rest  of  it  that  your 
worship  swore  to  observe  until  you  had  taken  that  hel- 
met of  Malandrino’s,  or  whatever  the  Moor  is  called, 
for  I do  not  very  well  remember.” 

‘‘Thou  art  very  right,  Sancho,”  said  Don  Quixote, 
“ but  to  tell  the  truth,  it  had  escaped  my  memory ; 
and  likewise  thou  mayest  rely  upon  it  that  the  affair 
of  the  blanket  happened  to  thee  because  of  thy  fault 
in  not  reminding  me  of  it  in  time ; but  I will  make 
amends,  for  there  are  ways  of  compounding  for  every 
thing  in  the  order  of  chivalry.” 

“Why  ! have  I taken  an  oath  of  some  sort,  then?” 
said  Sancho. 

“ It  makes  no  matter  that  thou  hast  not  taken  an 


CHAPTER  XIX. 


347 


oath,”  said  Don  Quixote ; “ suffice  it  that  I see  thou 
art  not  quite  clear  of  complicity  j and  whether  or  no, 
it  will  not  be  ill  done  to  provide  ourselves  with  a 
remedy.” 

In  that  case,”  said  Sancho,  mind  that  your  wor- 
ship does  not  forget  this  as  you  did  the  oath ; perhaps 
the  phantoms  may  take  it  into  their  heads  to  amuse 
themselves  once  more  with  me  j or  even  with  your 
worship  if  they  see  you  so  obstinate.” 

While  engaged  in  this  and  other  talk,  night  over- 
took them  on  the  road  before  they  had  reached  or 
discovered  any  place  of  shelter ; and  what  made  it 
still  worse  was  that  they  were  dying  of  hunger,  for 
with  the  loss  of  the  alforjas  they  had  lost  their  entire 
larder  and  commissariat ; and  to  complete  the  mis- 
fortune they  met  with  an  adventure  which  without  any 
invention  had  really  the  appearance  of  one.  It  so 
happened  that  the  night  closed  in  somewhat  darkly, 
but  for  all  that  they  pushed  on,  Sancho  feeling  sure 
that  as  the  road  was  the  king’s  highway  ^ they  might 
reasonably  expect  to  find  some  inn  within  a league  or 
two.  Going  along,  then,  in  this  way,  the  night  dark, 
the  squire  hungry,  the  master  sharp-set,  they  saw  com- 
ing towards  them  on  the  road  they  were  travelling  a 
great  number  of  lights  which  looked  exactly  like  stars 
in  motion.  Sancho  was  taken  aback  at  the  sight  of 
them,  nor  did  Don  Quixote  altogether  relish  them  : 
the  one  pulled  up  his  ass  by  the  halter,  the  other  his 

^ Camino  real  — one  of  the  main  roads  connecting  the  provinces  or  chief 
cities  with  the  capital. 


348 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


hack  by  the  bridle,  and  they  stood  still,  watching 
anxiously  to  see  what  all  this  would  turn  out  to  be, 
and  found  that  the  lights  were  approaching  them,  and 
the  nearer  they  came  the  greater  they  seemed,  at 
which  spectacle  Sancho  began  to  shake  like  a man 
dosed  with  mercury,  and  Don  Quixote’s  hair  stood  on 
end ; he,  however,  plucking  up  spirit  a little,  said, 
“ This,  no  doubt,  Sancho,  will  be  a most  mighty  and 
perilous  adventure,  in  which  it  will  be  needful  for  me 
to  put  forth  all  my  valor  and  resolution.” 

“ Unlucky  me  ! ” answered  Sancho  ; if  this  ad- 
venture happens  to  be  one  of  phantoms,  as  I am 
beginning  to  think  it  is,  where  shall  I find  the  ribs 
to  bear  it? ” 

“ Be  they  phantoms  ever  so  much,”  said  Don  Qui- 
xote, ‘‘  I will  not  permit  them  to  touch  a thread  of  thy 
garments ; for  if  they  played  tricks  with  thee  the  time 
before,  it  was  because  I was  unable  to  leap  the  walls 
of  the  yard ; but  now  we  are  on  a wide  plain,  where  I 
shall  be  able  to  wield  my  sword  as  I please.” 

‘‘  And  if  they  enchant  and  cripple  you  as  they  did 
the  last  time,”  said  Sancho,  “ what  difference  will  it 
make  being  on  the  open  plain  or  not?  ” 

For  all  that,”  replied  Don  Quixote,  “ I entreat 
thee,  Sancho,  to  keep  a good  heart,  for  experience 
will  tell  thee  what  mine  is.” 

I will,  please  God,”  answered  Sancho,  and  the  two 
retiring  to  one  side  of  the  road  set  themselves  to 
observe  closely  what  all  these  moving  lights  might  be  ; 
and  very  soon  afterwards  they  made  out  some  twenty 


CHAPTER  XIX. 


349 


encamisados/  all  on  horseback,  with  lighted  torches  in 
their  hands,  the  awe-inspiring  aspect  of  whom  com- 
pletely extinguished  the  courage  of  Sancho,  who 
began  to  chatter  with  his  teeth  like  one  in  the  cold 
fit  of  an  ague ; and  his  heart  sank  and  his  teeth 
chattered  still  more  when  they  perceived  distinctly 
that  behind  them  there  came  a litter  covered  over 
with  black  and  followed  by  six  more  mounted  figures 
in  mourning  down  to  the  very  feet  of  their  mules  — 
for  they  could  perceive  plainly  they  were  not  horses 
by  the  easy  pace  at  which  they  went.  And  as  the 
encamisados  came  along  they  muttered  to  themselves 
in  a low  plaintive  tone.  This  strange  spectacle  at 
such  an  hour  and  in  such  a solitary  place  was  quite 
enough  to  strike  terror  into  Sancho’s  heart,  and  even 
into  his  master’s ; and  (save  in  Don  Quixote’s  case) 
did  so,  for  all  Sancho’s  resolution  had  now  broken 
down.  It  was  just  the  opposite  with  his  master,  whose 
imagination  immediately  conjured  up  all  this  to  him 
vividly  as  one  of  the  adventures  of  his  books.  He 
took  it  into  his  head  that  the  litter  was  a bier  on 
which  was  borne  some  sorely  wounded  or  slain  knight, 
to  avenge  whom  was  a task  reserved  for  him  alone ; 
and  without  any  further  reasoning  he  laid  his  lance  in 
rest,  fixed  himself  firmly  in  his  saddle,  and  with  gallant 
spirit  and  bearing  took  up  his  position  in  the  middle 


^ Maskers  wearing  shirts  (^camisas')  over  their  clothes,  who  marched  in 
procession  carrying  torches  on  festival  nights.  As  there  is  no  English 
translation  of  the  word,  it  is  better  to  give  the  Spanish  instead  of  some 
roundabout  descriptive  phrase. 


350 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


of  the  road  where  the  encamisados  must  of  necessity 
pass ; and  as  soon  as  he  saw  them  near  at  hand  he 
raised  his  voice  and  said,  “ Halt,  knights,  whosoever 
ye  may  be,  and  render  me  account  of  who  ye  are, 
whence  ye  come,  what  it  is  ye  carry  upon  that  bier, 
for,  to  judge  by  appearances,  either  ye  have  done  some 
wrong  or  some  wrong  has  been  done  to  you,  and  it  is 
fitting  and  necessary  that  I should  know,  either  that 
I may  chastise  you  for  the  evil  ye  have  done,  or  else 
that  I may  avenge  you  for  the  injury  that  has  been 
inflicted  upon  you.” 

“ We  are  in  haste,”  answered  one  of  the  encamisa- 
dos, and  the  inn  is  far  off,  and  we  cannot  stop  to 
render  you  such  an  account  as  you  demand ; ” and 
spurring  his  mule  he  moved  on. 

Don  Quixote  was  mightily  provoked  by  this  answer, 
and  seizing  the  mule  by  the  bridle  he  said,  “ Halt,  and 
be  more  mannerly,  and  render  an  account  of  what  I 
have  asked  of  you ; else,  take  my  defiance  to  combat, 
all  of  you.” 

The  mule  was  shy,  and  was  so  frightened  at  her 
bridle  being  seized  that  rearing  up  she  flung  her  rider 
to  the  ground  over  her  haunches.  An  attendant  who 
was  on  foot,  seeing  the  encamisado  fall,  began  to  abuse 
Don  Quixote,  who  now  moved  to  anger,  without  any 
more  ado,  laying  his  lance  in  rest  charged  one  of  the 
men  in  mourning  and  brought  him  badly  wounded  to 
the  ground,  and  as  he  wheeled  round  upon  the  others 
the  agility  with  which  he  attacked  and  routed  them 
was  a sight  to  see,  for  it  seemed  just  as  if  wings  had 


CHAPTER  XIX. 


351 


that  instant  grown  upon  Rocinante,  so  lightly  and 
proudly  did  he  bear  himself.  The  encamisados  were 
all  timid  folk  and  unarmed,  so  they  speedily  made 
their  escape  from  the  fray  and  set  off  at  a run  across 
the  plain  with  their  lighted  torches,  looking  exactly 
like  maskers  running  on  some  gala  or  festival  night. 
The  mourners,  too,  enveloped  and  swathed  in  their 
skirts  and  gowns,  were  unable  to  bestir  themselves, 
and  so  with  entire  safety  to  himself  Don  Quixote  be- 
labored them  all  and  drove  them  off  against  their  will, 
for  they  all  thought  it  was  no  man  but  a devil  from 
hell  come  to  carry  away  the  dead  body  they  had  in 
the  litter. 

Sancho  beheld  all  this  in  astonishment  at  the  intre- 
pidity of  his  lord,  and  said  to  himself,  “ Clearly  this 
master  of  mine  is  as  bold  and  valiant  as  he  says  he  is.” 

A burning  torch  lay  on  the  ground  near  the  first 
man  whom  the  mule  had  thrown,  by  the  light  of  which 
Don  Quixote  perceived  him,  and  coming  up  to  him 
he  presented  the  point  of  the  lance  to  his  face,  calling 
on  him  to  yield  himself  prisoner,  or  else  he  would 
kill  him ; to  which  the  prostrate  man  replied,  “I  am 
prisoner  enough  as  it  is ; I cannot  stir,  for  one  of  my 
legs  is  -broken  : I entreat  you,  if  you  be  a Christian 
gentleman,  not  to  kill  me,  which  will  be  committing 
grave  sacrilege,  for  I am  a licentiate  and  I hold  first 
orders.” 

‘‘Then  what  the  devil  brought  you  here,  being  a 
churchman?”  asked  Don  Quixote. 

“ What,  senor?  ” said  the  other.  “ My  bad  luck.” 


352 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


“ Then  still  worse  awaits  yon,”  said  Don  Quixote,  if 
you  do  not  satisfy  me  as  to  all  I asked  you  at  first.” 

“ You  shall  be  soon  satisfied,”  said  the  licentiate ; 
you  must  know,  then,  that  though  just  now  I said  I 
was  a licentiate,  I am  only  a bachelor,  and  my  name 
is  Alonzo  Lopez  ; I am  a native  of  Alcobendas,  I come 
from  the  city  of  Baeza  with  eleven  others,  priests,  the 
same  who  fled  with  the  torches,  and  we  are  going  to 
the  city  of  Segovia  accompanying  a dead  body  which 
is  in  that  litter,  and  is  that  of  a gentleman  who  died 
in  Baeza,  where  he  was  interred ; and  now,  as  I said, 
we  are  taking  his  bones  to  their  burial-place,  which  is 
in  Segovia,  where  he  was  born.” 

“And  who  killed  him?”  asked  Don  Quixote. 

“ God,  by  means  of  a malignant  fever  that  took 
him,”  answered  the  bachelor. 

“ In  that  case,”  said  Don  Quixote,  “ the  Lord  has 
relieved  me  of  the  task  of  avenging  his  death  had  any 
other  slain  him ; but,  he  who  slew  him  having  slain 
him,  there  is  nothing  for  it  but  to  be  silent,  and  shrug 
one’s  shoulders  ; I should  do  the  same  were  he  to  slay 
myself : and  I would  have  your  reverence  know  that  I 
am  a knight  of  La  Mancha,  Don  Quixote  by  name, 
and  it  is  my  business  and  calling  to  roam  the  world 
righting  wrongs  and  redressing  injuries.” 

“ I do  not  know  how  that  about  righting  wrongs  can 
be,”  said  the  bachelor,  “ for  from  straight  you  have 
made  me  crooked,'  leaving  me  with  a broken  leg  that 

* A quibble  on  the  words  derecho  and  tuerto,  which  mean  “ straight 
and  “ crooked,”  as  well  as  “ right  ” and  “ wrong.” 


CHAPTER  XIX. 


353 


will  never  see  itself  straight  again  all  the  days  of  its 
life ; and  the  injury  you  have  redressed  in  my  case 
has  been  to  leave  me  injured  in  such  a way  that  I 
shall  remain  injured  forever  j and  the  height  of  mis- 
adventure it  was  to  fall  in  with  you  who  go  in  search 
of  adventures.” 

‘‘Things  do  not  all  happen  in  the  same  way,” 
answered  Don  Quixote ; “ it  all  came,  Sir  Bachelor 
Alonzo  Lopez,  of  your  going,  as  you  did,  by  night, 
dressed  in  those  surplices,  with  lighted  torches,  pray- 
ing, covered  with  mourning,  so  that  naturally  you 
looked  like  something  evil  and  of  the  other  world ; 
and  so  I could  not  avoid  doing  my  duty  in  attacking 
you,  and  I should  have  attacked  you  even  had  I 
known  positively  that  you  were  the  very  devils  of  hell, 
for  such  I certainly  believed  and  took  you  to  be.”  ^ 

“ As  my  fate  has  so  willed  it,”  said  the  bachelor,  “I 
entreat  you,  sir  knight-errant,  whose  errand  has  been 
such  an  evil  one  for  me,  to  help  me  to  get  from  under 
this  mule  that  holds  one  of  my  legs  caught  between 
the  stirrup  and  the  saddle.” 

“ I would  have  talked  on  till  to-morrow,”  said  Don 
Quixote ; “ how  long  were  you  going  to  wait  before 
telling  me  of  your  distress?  ” 

He  at  once  called  to  Sancho,  who,  however,  had  no 
mind  to  come,  as  he  was  just  then  engaged  in  un- 


* The  original  has  “ for  such  I always  believed,”  etc.,  which  is  an  obvious 
slip,  either  of  the  pen  or  of  the  press.  It  cannot  be  that  Cervantes  intended 
a side  blow  at  ecclesiastics,  for  he  expressly  disclaims  any  such  intention,  and 
the  “ you  ” clearly  refers  to  these  particular  processionists  alone. 


354 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


loading  a sumpter  mule,  well  laden  with  provender, 
which  these  worthy  gentlemen  had  brought  with  them. 
Sancho  made  a bag  of  his  coat,  and,  getting  together 
as  much  as  he  could,  and  as  the  mule’s  sack  would 
hold,  he  loaded  his  beast,  and  then  hastened  to  obey 
his  master’s  call,  and  helped  him  to  remove  the  bach- 
elor from  under  the  mule ; then  putting  him  on  her 
back  he  gave  him  the  torch,  and  Don  Quixote  bade 
him  follow  the  track  of  his  companions,  and  beg 
pardon  of  them  on  his  part  for  the  wrong  which  he 
could  not  help  doing  them. 

And  said  Sancho,  If  by  chance  these  gentlemen 
should  want  to  know  who  was  the  hero  that  served 
them  so,  your  worship  may  tell  them  that  he  is  the 
famous  Don  Quixote  of  La  Mancha,  otherwise  called 
the  Knight  of  the  Rueful  Countenance.”  ' 

The  bachelor  then  took  his  departure.  I forgot  to 
mention  that  before  he  did  so  he  said  to  Don  Quixote, 
Remember  that  you  stand  excommunicated  for  hav- 
ing laid  violent  hands  on  a holy  thing,  jiixta  illud,  si 
quiSy  suadente  diabolo.^' 

I do  not  understand  that  Latin,”  answered  Don 


* It  has  been  frequently  objected  that  Jigura  does  not  mean  the  face  or 
countenance,  but  the  whole  figure ; but  no  matter  what  dictionaries  may  say, 
it  is  plain  from  what  follows  that  Sancho  applies  the  word  here  to  his  master’s 
face,  made  haggard  by  short  commons  and  loss  of  teeth,  and  uses  it  as 
synonymous  with  cara  ; and  that  Don  Quixote  himself  never  could  have 
contemplated  painting  a full-length  on  his  shield,  but  merely  a face.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  however,  the  dictionaries  do  not  support  the  objection.  The 
two  best,  that  of  the  Academy  and  of  Vicente  Salva,  explain  figtira  as  the 
“ external  form  of  a body,”  and  add  that  it  is  commonly  used  for  the  face 
alone,  por  solo  el  rostro. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 


355 


Quixote,  ‘‘  but  I know  well  I did  not  lay  hands,  only 
this  pike ; besides,  I did  not  think  I was  committing 
an  assault  upon  priests  or  things  of  the  Church,  which, 
like  a Catholic  and  faithful  Christian  as  I am,  I respect 
and  revere,  but  upon  phantoms  and  spectres  of  the 
other  world ; but  even  so,  I remember  how  it  fared 
with  Cid  Ruy  Diaz  when  he  broke  the  chair  of  the 
ambassador  of  that  king  before  his  Holiness  the  Pope, 
who  excommunicated  him  for  the  same ; and  yet  the 
good  Roderick  of  Bivar  bore  himself  that  day  like  a 
very  noble  and  valiant  knight.”  ' 

On  hearing  this  the  bachelor  took  his  departure,  as 
has  been  said,  without  making  any  reply;  and  Don 
Quixote  asked  Sancho  what  had  induced  him  to  call 
him  the  Knight  of  the  Rueful  Countenance  ” more 
then  than  at  any  other  time. 

I will  tell  you,”  answered  Sancho  ; “it  was  because 
I have  been  looking  at  you  for  some  time  by  the  light 
of  the  torch  held  by  that  unfortunate,  and  verily  your 
worship  has  got  of  late  the  most  ill-favored  coun- 
tenance I ever  saw  : it  must  be  either*  owing  to  the 
fatigue  of  this  combat,  or  else  to  the  want  of  teeth  and 
grinders.” 

“ It  is  not  that,”  replied  Don  Quixote,  “ but  because 
the  sage  whose  duty  it  will  be  to  write  the  history  of 
my  achievements  must  have  thought  it  proper  that  I 
should  take  some  distinctive  name  as  all  knights  of 


* Referring  to  the  apocryphal  legend  which  forms  the  subject  of  the  ballad, 
“ A coticilio  dentro  e7i  Roma."  Among  Lockhart’s  ballads  there  is  a lively 
version  of  it. 


356 


DON  QUIXOTE, 


yore  did ; one  being  ^ He  of  the  Burning  Sword,’  an- 
other ‘ He  of  the  Unicorn,’  this  one  ‘ He  of  the 
Damsels,’  that  ‘ He  of  the  Phcenix,’  another  ‘ The 
Knight  of  the  Griffin,’  and  another  ^ He  of  the  Death,’ 
and  by  these  names  and  designations  they  were  known 
all  the  world  round ; and  so  I say  that  the  sage  afore- 
said must  have  put  it  into  your  mouth  and  mind  just 
now  to  call  me  ‘ The  Knight  of  the  Rueful  Counte- 
nance,’ as  I intend  to  call  myself  from  this  day  for- 
ward ; and  that  the  said  name  may  fit  me  better,  I 
mean,  when  the  opportunity  offers,  to  have  a very 
rueful  countenance  painted  on  my  shield.” 

“There  is  no  occasion,  senor,  for  wasting  time  or 
money  on  making  that  countenance,”  said  Sancho ; 
“ for  all  that  need  be  done  is  for  your  worship  to  show 
your  own,  face  to  face,  to  those  who  look  at  you,  and 
without  any  thing  more,  either  image  or  shield,  they 
will  call  you  ‘ Him  of  the  Rueful  Countenance  ; ’ and 
believe  me  I am  telling  you  the  truth,  for  I assure  you, 
senor  (and  in  good  part  be  it  said),  hunger  and  the 
loss  of  your  grinders  have  given  you  such  an  ill- 
favored  face  that,  as  I say,  the  rueful  picture  may  be 
very  well  spared.” 

Don  Quixote  laughed  at  Sancho’s  pleasantry ; never- 
theless he  resolved  to  call  himself  by  that  name,  and 
have  his  shield  or  buckler  painted  as  he  had  devised. 

Don  Quixote  would  have  looked  to  see  whether  the 
body  in  the  litter  were  bones  or  not,  but  Sancho  would 
not  have  it,  saying,  “ Senor,  you  have  ended  this  peril- 
ous adventure  more  safely  for  yourself  than  any  of 


CHAPTER  XIX. 


357 


those  I have  seen : perhaps  these  people,  though 
beaten  and  routed,  may  bethink  themselves  that  it  is 
a single  man  that  has  beaten  them,  and  feeling  sore 
and  ashamed  of  it  may  take  heart  and  come  in  search 
of  us  and  give  us  trouble  enough.  The  ass  is  in  proper 
trim,  the  mountains  are  near  at  hand,  hunger  presses, 
we  have  nothing  more  to  do  but  make  good  our  re- 
treat, and,  as  the  saying  is,  let  the  dead  go  to  the  grave 
and  the  living  to  the  loaf;  ” ‘ and  driving  his  ass  be- 
fore him  he  begged  his  master  to  follow,  who,  feeling 
that  Sancho  was  right,  did  so  without  replying ; and 
after  proceeding  some  little  distance  between  two  hills 
they  found  themselves  in  a wide  and  retired  valley, 
where  they  alighted,  and  Sancho  unloaded  his  beast, 
and  stretched  upon  the  green  grass,  with  hunger  for 
sauce,  they  breakfasted,  dined,  lunched,  and  supped 
all  at  once,  satisfying  their  appetites  with  more  than 
one  store  of  cold  meat  which  the  dead  man’s  clerical 
gentlemen  (who  seldom  put  themselves  on  short  al- 
lowance) had  brought  with  them  on  their  sumpter 
mule.  But  another  piece  of  ill-luck  befell  them,  which 
Sancho  held  the  worst  of  all,  and  that  was  that  they 
had  no  wine  to  drink,  nor  even  water  to  moisten  their 
lips  ; and  as  thirst  tormented  them,  Sancho,  observing 
that  the  meadow  where  they  were  was  full  of  green  and 
tender  grass,  said  what  will  be  told  in  the  following 
chapter. 


Prov.  147. 


358 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

OF  THE  UNEXAMPLED  AND  UNHEARD-OF  ADVENTURE 
WHICH  WAS  ACHIEVED  BY  THE  VALIANT  DON  QUIXOTE 
OF  LA  MANCHA  WITH  LESS  PERIL  THAN  ANY  EVER 
ACHIEVED  BY  ANY  FAMOUS  KNIGHT  IN  THE  WORLD. 

‘‘  It  cannot  be,  senor,  but  that  this  grass  is  a proof 
that  there  must  be  hard  by  some  spring  or  brook  to 
give  it  moisture,  so  it  would  be  well  done  to  move  a 
little  farther  on,  that  we  may  find  some  place  where 
we  may  quench  this  terrible  thirst  that  plagues  us, 
which  beyond  a doubt  is  more  distressing  than 
hunger.” 

The  advice  seemed  good  to  Don  Quixote,  and,  he 
leading  Rocinante  by  the  bridle  and  Sancho  the  ass  by 
the  halter,  after  he  had  packed  away  upon  him  the 
remains  of  the  supper,  they  advanced  up  the  meadow 
feeling  their  way,  for  the  darkness  of  the  night  made  it 
impossible  to  see  any  thing ; but  they  had  not  gone  two 
hundred  paces  when  a loud  noise  of  water,  as  if  falling 
from  great  high  rocks,  struck  their  ears.  The  sound 
cheered  them  greatly ; but  halting  to  make  out  hy 
listening  from  what  quarter  it  came  they  heard  unsea- 
sonably another  noise  which  spoiled  ^ the  satisfaction 


Literally,  “ watered  the  satisfaction.” 


CHAPTER  XX. 


359 


the  sound  of  the  water  gave  them,  especially  for  San- 
cho,  who  was  by  nature  timid  and  faint-hearted  j they 
heard,  I say,  strokes  falling  with  a measured  beat,  and 
a certain  rattling  of  iron  and  chains  that,  together  with 
the  furious  din  of  the  water,  would  have  struck  terror 
into  any  heart  but  Don  Quixote’s.  The  night  was,  as 
has  been  said,  dark,  and  they  had  happened  to  reach 
a spot  in  among  some  tall  trees,  whose  leaves  stirred 
by  a gentle  breeze  made  a low  ominous  sound ; so 
that,  what  with  the  solitude,  the  place,  the  darkness, 
the  noise  of  the  water,  and  the  rustling  of  the  leaves, 
every  thing  inspired  awe  and  dread  ; more  especially  as 
they  perceived  that  the  strokes  did  not  cease,  nor  the 
wind  lull,  nor  morning  approach ; to  all  which  might 
be  added  their  ignorance  as  to  where  they  were.  But 
Don  Quixote,  supported  by  his  intrepid  heart,  leaped 
on  Rocinante,  and  bracing  his  buckler  on  his  arm, 
brought  his  pike  to  the  slope,  and  said,  “ Friend  San- 
cho,  know  that  I by  Heaven’s  will  have  been  born  in 
this  our  iron  age  to  revive  in  it  the  age  of  gold,  or  the 
golden  as  it  is  called  ; I am  he  for  whom  perils,  mighty 
achievements,  and  valiant  deeds  are  reserved ; I am,  I 
say  again,  he  who  is  to  revive  the  Knights  of  the 
Round  Table,  the  Twelve  of  France  and  the  Nine 
Worthies ; and  he  who  is  to  consign  to  oblivion  the 
Platirs,  the  Tablantes,  the  Olivantes  and  Tirantes,  the 
Phoebuses  and  Belianises,  with  the  whole  herd  of 
famous  knights- errant  of  days  gone  by,  performing  in 
these  in  which  I live  such  exploits,  marvels,  and  feats 
of  arms  as  shall  obscure  their  brightest  deeds.  Thou 


36o 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


dost  mark  well,  faithful  and  trusty  squire,  the  gloom  of 
this  night,  its  strange  silence,  the  dull  confused  mur- 
mur of  those  trees,  the  awful  sound  of  that  water  in 
quest  of  which  we  came,  that  seems  as  though  it  were 
precipitating  and  dashing  itself  down  from  the  lofty 
mountains  of  the  moon,  and  that  incessant  hammering 
that  wounds  and  pains  our  ears ; which  things  all  to- 
gether and  each  of  itself  are  enough  to  instil  fear,  dread, 
and  dismay  into  the  breast  of  Mars  himself,  much  more 
into  one  not  used  to  hazards  and  adventures  of  the 
kind.  Well,  then,  all  this  that  I put  before  thee  is  but 
an  incentive  and  stimulant  to  my  spirit,  making  my 
heart  burst  in  my  bosom  through  eagerness  to  engage 
in  this  adventure,  arduous  as  it  promises  to  be ; there- 
fore tighten  Rocinante’s  girths  a little,  and  God  be 
with  thee ; wait  for  me  here  three  days  and  no  more, 
and  if  in  that  time  I come  not  back,  thou  canst  return 
to  our  village,  and  thence,  to  do  me  a favor  and  a 
service,  thou  wilt  go  to  El  Toboso,  where  thou  shalt 
say  to  my  incomparable  lady  Dulcinea  that  her  captive 
knight  hath  died  in  attempting  things  that  might  make 
him  worthy  of  being  called  hers.” 

When  Sancho  heard  his  master’s  words  he  began  to 
weep  in  the  most  pathetic  way,  saying,  “ Senor,  I know 
not  why  your  worship  wants  to  attempt  this  so  dread- 
ful adventure ; it  is  night  now,  no  one  sees  us  here,  we 
can  easily  turn  about  and  take  ourselves  out  of  danger, 
even  if  we  don’t  drink  for  three  days  to  come ; and  as 
there  is  no  one  to  see  us,  all  the  less  will  there  be  any 
one  to  set  us  down  as  cowards ; besides,  I have  many 


CHAPTER  XX. 


361 


a time  heard  the  curate  of  our  village,  whom  your 
worship  knows  well,  preach  that  he  who  seeks  danger 
perishes  in  it ; ‘ so  it  is  not  right  to  tempt  God  by  try- 
ing so  tremendous  a feat  from  which  there  can  be  no 
escape  save  by  a miracle,  and  Heaven  has  performed 
enough  of  them  for  your  worship  in  delivering  you 
from  being  blanketed  as  I was,  and  bringing  you  out 
victorious  and  safe  and  sound  from  among  all  those 
enemies  that  were  with  the  dead  man ; and  if  all  this 
does  not  move  or  soften  that  hard  heart,  let  this 
thought  and  reflection  move  it,  that  you  will  have 
hardly  quitted  this  spot  when  from  pure  fear  I shall 
yield  my  soul  up  to  any  one  that  will  take  it.  I left 
home  and  wife  and  children  to  come  and  serve  your 
worship,  trusting  to  do  better  and  not  worse ; but,  as 
covetousness  bursts  the  bag,^  it  has  rent  my  hopes 
asunder,  for  just  as  I had  them  highest  about  getting 
that  wretched  unlucky  island  your  worship  has  so 
often  promised  me,  I see  that  instead  and  in  lieu  of  it 
you  mean  to  desert  me  now  in  a place  so  far  from 
human  reach  : for  God’s  sake,  master  mine,  deal  not 
so  unjustly  by  me,  and  if  your  worship  will  not  en- 
tirely give  up  attempting  this  feat,  at  least  put  it  off 
till  morning,  for  by  what  the  lore  I learned  when  I was  a 
shepherd  tells  me  it  cannot  want  three  hours  of  dawn 
now,  because  the  mouth  of  the  Horn  is  overhead  and 
makes  midnight  in  the  line  of  the  left  arm.”  3 


^ Prov.  179,  2 Prov.  50. 

3 The  Horn  Sancho  refers  to  is  the  constellation  of  Ursa  Minor,  which 
has  somewhat  the  shape  of  a curved  hunting  horn,  and  the  hour  was  calcu- 


362 


• DON  QUIXOTE. 


“ How  canst  thou  see,  Sancho,”  said  Don  Quixote, 
“ where  it  makes  that  line,  or  where  the  mouth  or 
head  is  that  thou  talkest  of,  when  the  night  is  so 
dark  that  there  is  not  a star  to  be  seen  in  the  whole 
heaven?  ” 

“ That’s  true,”  said  Sancho,  “ but  fear  has  sharp 
eyes,  and  sees  things  underground,  much  more  above 
in  the  heavens ; besides,  there  is  good  reason  to  show 
that  it  now  wants  but  little  of  day.” 

Let  it  want  what  it  may,”  replied  Don  Quixote, 
it  shall  not  be  said  of  me  now  or  at  any  time  that 
tears  or  entreaties  turned  me  aside  from  doing  what 
was  in  accordance  with  knightly  usage ; and  so  I beg 
of  thee,  Sancho,  to  hold  thy  peace,  for  God,  who  has 
put  it  into  my  heart  to  undertake  now  this  so  unexam- 
pled and  terrible  adventure,  will  take  care  to  watch 
over  my  safety  and  console  thy  sorrow ; what  thou  hast 
to  do  is  to  tighten  Rocinante’s  girths  well,  and  wait 
here,  for  I shall  come  back  shortly,  alive  or  dead.” 

Sancho  perceiving  it  his  master’s  final  resolve,  and 
how  little  his  tears,  counsels,  and  entreaties  prevailed 
with  him,  determined  to  have  recourse  to  his  own 
ingenuity  and  compel  him  if  he  could  to  wait  till  day- 
light ; and  so,  while  tightening  the  girths  of  the  horse, 
he  quietly  and  without  being  felt,  tied  both  Roci- 
nante’s fore-legs,  so  that  when  Don  Quixote  strove  to 
go  he  was  unable  as  the  horse  could  only  move  by 
jumps.  Seeing  the  success  of  his  trick,  Sancho  Panza 


lated  by  extending  the  arms  horizontally  so  as  to  represent  a cross,  the  time 
being  indicated  by  the  relative  position  of  the  Horn  to  the  arms. 


CHAPTER  XX. 


363 


said,  “ See  there,  senor  ! Heaven,  moved  by  my  tears 
and  prayers,  has  so  ordered  it  that  Rocinante  cannot 
stir ; and  if  you  will  be  obstinate,  and  spur  and  strike 
him,  you  will  only  provoke  fortune,  and  kick,  as  they 
say,  against  the  pricks.” 

Don  Quixote  at  this  grew  desperate,  but  the  more 
he  drove  his  heels  into  the  horse,  the  less  he  stirred 
him ; and  not  having  any  suspicion  of  the  tying,  he 
was  fain  to  resign  himself  and  wait  till  daybreak  or 
until  Rocinante  could  move,  firmly  persuaded  that  all 
this  came  of  something  other  than  Sancho’s  ingenuity. 
So  he  said  to  him,  “ As  it  is  so,  Sancho,  and  as  Roci- 
nante cannot  move,  I am  content  to  wait  till  dawn 
smiles  upon  us,  even  though  I weep  while  it  delays  its 
coming.” 

There  is  no  need  to  weep,”  answered  Sancho, 
‘‘  for  I will  amuse  your  worship  by  telling  stories  from 
this  till  daylight,  unless  indeed  you  like  to  dismount 
and  lie  down  to  sleep  a little  on  the  green  grass  after 
the  fashion  of  knights-errant,  so  as  to  be  fresher  when 
day  comes  and  the  moment  arrives  for  attempting  this 
extraordinary  adventure  you  are  looking  forward  to.” 

What  art  thou  talking  about  dismounting  or  sleep- 
ing for?”  said  Don  Quixote.  ‘‘Am  I,  thinkest  thou, 
one  of  those  knights  that  take  their  rest  in  the  pres- 
ence of  danger?  Sleep  thou  who  art  born  to  sleep, 
or  do  as  thou  wilt,  for  I will  act  as  I think  most 
consistent  with  my  character.” 

“ Be  not  angry,  master  mine,”  replied  Sancho,  “ I 
did  not  mean  to  say  that ; ” and  coming  close  to  him 


364 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


he  laid  one  hand  on  the  pommel  of  the  saddle  and 
the  other  on  the  cantle,  so  that  he  held  his  master’s 
left  thigh  in  his  embrace,  not  daring  to  separate  a fin- 
ger’s length  from  him ; so  much  afraid  was  he  of  the 
strokes  which  still  resounded  with  a regular  beat.  Don 
Quixote  bade  him  tell  some  story  to  amuse  him  as  he 
had  proposed,  to  which  Sancho  replied  that  he  would 
if  his  dread  of  what  he  heard  would  let  him  ; ‘‘Still,” 
said  he,  “ I will  strive  to  tell  a story  which,  if  I can 
manage  to  relate  it,  and  it  escapes  me  not,  is  the  best 
of  stories,  and  let  your  worship  give  me  your  attention, 
for  here  I begin.  What  was,  was  ; ' and  may  the  good 
that  is  to  come  be  for  all,  and  the  evil  for  him  who 
goes  to  look  for  it  — your  worship  must  know  that  the 
beginning  the  old  folk  used  to  put  to  their  tales  was 
not  just  as  each  one  pleased ; it  was  a maxim  of  Cato 
Zonzorino  ^ the  Roman  that  says  ‘ the  evil  for  him  that 
goes  to  look  for  it,’  and  it  comes  as  pat  to  the  pur- 
pose now  as  ring  to  finger,  to  show  that  your  worship 
should  keep  quiet  and  not  go  looking  for  evil  in  any 
quarter,  and  that  we  should  go  back  by  some  other 
road,  since  nobody  forces  us  to  follow  this  in  which  so 
many  terrors  affright  us.” 

“ Go  on  with  thy  story,  Sancho,”  said  Don  Quixote, 
“and  leave  the  choice  of  our  road  to  my  care.” 

“ I say  then,”  continued  Sancho,  “ that  in  a village 


* Prov.  96. 

2 i.  e.  Caton  Censorino  — Cato  the  Censor;  but  Sancho’s  impression  was 
that  the  name  was  derived  from  zonzo,  “ stupid,”  or  zonzorrion,  “ a block- 
head.” 


CHAPTER  XX. 


365 


of  Estremadura  there  was  a goat-shepherd  — that  is  to 
say,  one  who  tended  goats  — which  shepherd  or  goat- 
herd, as  my  story  goes,  was  called  Lope  Ruiz,  and 
this  Lope  Ruiz  was  in  love  with  a shepherdess  called 
Torralva,  which  shepherdess  called  Torralva  was  the 
daughter  of  a rich  grazier,  and  this  rich  grazier  ” — 

‘‘  If  that  is  the  way  thou  tellest  thy  tale,  Sancho,” 
said  Don  Quixote,  “ repeating  twice  all  thou  hast  to 
say,  thou  wilt  not  have  done  these  two  days;  go 
straight  on  with  it,  and  tell  it  like  a reasonable  man, 
or  else  say  nothing.” 

“ Tales  are  always  told  in  my  country  in  the  very 
way  I am  telling  this,”  answered  Sancho,  and  I can- 
not tell  it  in  any  other,  nor  is  it  right  of  your  worship 
to  ask  me  to  make  new  customs.” 

^‘Tell  it  as  thou  wilt,”  replied  Don  Quixote;  and 
as  fate  will  have  it  that  I cannot  help  listening  to  thee, 
go  on.” 

And  so,  lord  of  my  soul,”  continued  Sancho,  as  I 
have  said,  this  shepherd  was  in  love  with  Torralva  the 
shepherdess,  who  was  a wild  buxom  lass  with  some- 
thing of  the  look  of  a man  about  her,  for  she  had  little 
mustaches  ; I fancy  I see  her  now.” 

‘‘Then  you  knew  her?  ” said  Don  Quixote. 

“ I did  not  know  her,”  said  Sancho,  “ but  he  who 
told  me  the  story  said  it  was  so  true  and  certain  that 
when  I told  it  to  another  I might  safely  declare  and 
swear  I had  seen  it  all  myself.  And  so  in  course  of 
time,  the  devil,  who  never  sleeps  and  puts  every  thing 
in  confusion,  contrived  that  the  love  the  shepherd 


366 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


bore  the  shepherdess  turned  into  hatred  and  ill-will, 
and  the  reason,  according  to  evil  tongues,  was  some 
little  jealousy  she  caused  him  that  crossed  the  line 
and  trespassed  on  forbidden  ground ; ' and  so  much 
did  the  shepherd  hate  her  from  that  time  forward  that, 
in  order  to  escape  from  her,  he  determined  to  quit  the 
country  and  go  where  he  should  never  set  eyes  on  her 
again.  Torralva,  when  she  found  herself  spurned  by 
Lope,  was  immediately  smitten  with  love  for  him, 
though  she  had  never  loved  him  before.” 

‘^That  is  the  natural  way  of  women,”  said  Don 
Quixote,  “ to  scorn  the  one  that  loves  them,  and  love 
the  one  that  hates  them  : go  on,  Sancho.” 

It  came  to  pass,”  said  Sancho,  ‘‘that  the  shepherd 
carried  out  his  intention,  and  driving  his  goats  before 
him  took  his  way  across  the  plains  of  Estremadura  to 
pass  over  into  the  Kingdom  of  Portugal.  Torralva, 
who  knew  of  it,  went  after  him,  and  on  foot  and  bare- 
foot followed  him  at  a distance,  with  a pilgrim’s  staff 
in  her  hand  and  a scrip  round  her  neck,  in  which  she 
carried,  it  is  said,  a bit  of  looking-glass,  and  a piece  of 
a comb  and  some  little  pot  or  other  of  paint  for  her 
face ; but  let  her  carry  what  she  did,  I am  not  going 
to  trouble  myself  to  prove  it ; all  I say  is,  that  the 
shepherd,  they  say,  came  with  his  flock  to  cross  over 
the  river  Guadiana,  which  was  at  that  time  swollen  and 
almost  overflowing  its  banks,  and  at  the  spot  he  came 
to  there  was  neither  ferry  nor  boat  nor  any  one  to 


Prov.  198. 


CHAPTER  XX. 


367 


carry  him  or  his  flock  to  the  other  side,  at  which  he 
was  much  vexed,  for  he  perceived  that  Torralva  was 
approaching  and  would  give  him  great  annoyance  with 
her  tears  and  entreaties ; however,  he  went  looking 
about  so  closely  that  he  discovered  a fisherman  who 
had  alongside  of  him  a boat  so  small  that  it  could  only 
hold  one  person  and  one  goat ; but  for  all  that  he 
spoke  to  him  and  agreed  with  him  to  carry  himself 
and  his  three  hundred  goats  across.  The  fisherman 
got  into  the  boat  and  carried  one  goat  over ; he  came 
back  and  carried  another  over ; he  came  back  again, 
and  again  brought  over  another  — let  your  worship 
keep  count  of  the  goats  the  fisherman  is  taking  across, 
for  if  one  escapes  the  memory  there  will  be  an  end  of 
the  story,  and  it  will  be  impossible  to  tell  another  word 
of  it.  To  proceed,  I must  tell  you  the  landing  place  on 
the  other  side  was  miry  and  slippery,  and  the  fisherman 
lost  a great  deal  of  time  in  going  and  coming ; still  he 
returned  for  another  goat,  and  another,  and  another.” 

“ Take  it  for  granted  he  brought  them  all  across,” 
said  Don  Quixote,  “ and  don’t  keep  going  and  coming 
in  this  way,  or  thou  wilt  not  make  an  end  of  bringing 
them  over  this  twelvemonth.” 

‘‘How  many  have  gone  across  so  far?”  said 
Sancho. 

“ How  the  devil  do  I know?”  replied  Don  Quixote. 

“There  it  is,”  said  Sancho,  “what  I told  you,  that 
you  must  keep  a good  count ; well  then,  by  God, 
there  is  an  end  of  the  story,  for  there  is  no  going  any 
farther.” 


368 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


“ How  can  that  be?  ” said  Don  Quixote  ; is  it  so 
essential  to  the  story  to  know  to  a nicety  the  goats 
that  have  crossed  over,  that  if  there  be  a mistake  of 
one  in  the  reckoning,  thou  canst  not  go  on  with  it?  ” 
No,  sehor,  not  a bit,”  replied  Sancho  ; “ for  when 
I asked  your  worship  to  tell  me  how  many  goats  had 
crossed,  and  you  answered  you  did  not  know,  at  that 
very  instant  all  1 had  to  say  passed  away  out  of  my 
memory,  and  faith,  there  was  much  virtue  in  it,  and 
entertainment.” 

“ So,  then,”  said  Don  Quixote,  “ the  story  has  come 
to  an  end  ? ” 

As  much  as  my  mother  has,”  said  Sancho. 

“ In  truth,”  said  Don  Quixote,  ‘‘  thou  hast  told  one 
of  the  rarest  stories,  tales,  or  histories,  that  any  one  in 
the  world  could  have  imagined,  and  such  a way  of 
telling  it  and  ending  it  was  never  seen  nor  will  be  in 
a lifetime ; though  I expected  nothing  else  from  thy 
excellent  understanding.  But  I do  not  wonder,  for 
perhaps  those  ceaseless  strokes  may  have  confused  thy 
wits.” 

‘^All  that  maybe,”  replied  Sancho,  “but  I know 
that  as  to  my  story,  all  that  can  be  said  is  that  it  ends 
there  where  the  mistake  in  the  count  of  the  passage  of 
the  goats  ' begins.” 

“ Let  it  end  where  it  will,  well  and  good,”  said  Don 


I The  story  of  the  passage  of  the  goats  is  a very  old  one.  It  is  the  30th  of 
the  Cento  Novelle  A7itiche,  into  which  it  was  imported,  no  doubt,  from  the 
Latin  of  the  Aragonese  Jew,  Pedro  Alfonso.  There  is  a Provencal  tale  to 
the  same  effect;  but  the  original  was  probably  Oriental. 


CHAPTER  XX. 


369 


Quixote,  “ and  let  us  see  if  Rocinante  can  go ; ” and 
again  he  spurred  him,  and  again  Rocinante  made 
jumps  and  remained  where  he  was,  so  well  tied  was  he. 

Just  then,  whether  it  was  the  cold  of  the  morning 
that  was  now  approaching,  or  that  he  had  eaten  some- 
thing laxative  at  supper,  or  that  it  was  only  natural  (as 
is  most  likely) , Sancho  felt  a desire  to  do  what  no  one 
could  do  for  him ; but  so  great  was  the  fear  that  had 
penetrated  his  heart,  he  dared  not  separate  himself 
from  his  master  by  so  much  as  the  black  of  his  nail ; 
to  escape  doing  what  he  wanted  was,  however,  also 
impossible ; so  what  he  did  for  peace’  sake  was  to 
remove  his  right  hand,  which  held  the  back  of  the 
saddle,  and  with  it  to  untie  gently  and  silently  the  run- 
ning string  which  alone  held  up  his  breeches,  so  that 
on  loosening  it  they  at  once  fell  down  round  his  feet 
like  fetters  ; he  then  raised  his  shirt  as  well  as  he  could 
and  bared  his  hind  quarters,  no  slim  ones.  But,  this 
accomplished,  which  he  fancied  was  all  he  had  to  do 
to  get  out  of  this  terrible  strait  and  embarrassment, 
another  still  greater  difficulty  presented  itself,  for  it 
seemed  to  him  impossible  to  relieve  himself  without 
making  some  noise,  and  he  ground  his  teeth  and 
squeezed  his  shoulders  together,  holding  his  breath  as 
much  as  he  could ; but  in  spite  of  his  precautions  he 
was  unlucky  enough  after  all  to  make  a little  noise, 
very  different  from  that  which  was  causing  him  so 
much  fear. 

Don  Quixote,  hearing  it,  said,  “ What  noise  is  that, 
Sancho?  ” 


370 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


I don’t  know,  senor,”  said  he  ; it  must  be  some- 
thing new,  for  adventures  and  misadventures  never 
begin  with  a trifle.”  Once  more  he  tried  his  luck, 
and  succeeded  so  well,  that  without  any  further  noise 
or  disturbance  he  found  himself  relieved  of  the  burden 
that  had  given  him  so  much  discomfort.  But  as  Don 
Quixote’s  sense  of  smell  was  as  acute  as  his  hearing, 
and  as  Sancho  was  so  closely  linked  with  him  that  the 
fumes  rose  almost  in  a straight  line,  it  could  not  be  but 
that  some  should  reach  his  nose,  and  as  soon  as  they 
did  he  came  to  its  relief  by  compressing  it  between 
his  fingers,  saying  in  a rather  snuffling  tone,  Sancho, 
it  strikes  me  thou  art  in  great  fear.” 

“ I am,”  answered  Sancho ; “ but  how  does  your 
worship  perceive  it  now  more  than  ever?  ” 

“ Because  just  now  thou  smellest  stronger  than  ever, 
and  not  of  ambergris,”  answered  Don  Quixote. 

‘‘Very  likely,”  said  Sancho,  “but  that’s  not  my 
fault,  but  your  worship’s,  for  leading  me  about  at  un- 
seasonable hours  and  at  such  unwonted  paces.” 

“ Then  go  back  three  or  four,  my  friend,”  said  Don 
Quixote,  all  the  time  with  his  fingers  to  his  nose ; 
“ and  for  the  future  pay  more  attention  to  thy  person 
and  to  what  thou  owest  to  mine ; for  it  is  my  great 
familiarity  with  thee  that  has  bred  this  contempt.” 

“ I’ll  bet,”  replied  Sancho,  “ that  your  worship 
thinks  I have  done  something  I ought  not  with  my 
person.” 

“ It  makes  it  worse  to  stir  it,  friend  Sancho,”  re- 
turned Don  Quixote. 


CHAPTER  XX. 


371 


With  this  and  other  talk  of  the  same  sort  master 
and  man  passed  the  night,  till  Sancho,  perceiving  that 
daybreak  was  coming  on  apace,  very  cautiously  untied 
Rocinante  and  tied  up  his  breeches.  As  soon  as 
Rocinante  found  himself  free,  though  by  nature  he 
was  not  at  all  mettlesome,  he  seemed  to  feel  lively 
and  began  pawing  — for  as  to  capering,  begging  his 
pardon,  he  knew  not  what  it  meant.  Don  Quixote, 
then,  observing  that  Rocinante  could  move,  took  it 
as  a good  sign  and  a signal  that  he  should  attempt 
the  dread  adventure.  By  this  time  day  had  fully 
broken  and  every  thing  showed  distinctly,  and  Don 
Quixote  saw  that  he  was  among  some  tall  trees,  chest- 
nuts, which  cast  a very  deep  shade ; he  perceived 
likewise  that  the  sound  of  the  strokes  did  not  cease, 
but  could  not  discover  what  caused  it,  and  so  with- 
out any  further  delay  he  let  Rocinante  feel  the  spur, 
and  once  more  taking  leave  of  Sancho,  he  told  him 
to  wait  for  him  there  three  days  at  most,  as  he  had 
said  before,  and  if  he  should  not  have  returned  by 
that  time,  he  might  feel  sure  it  had  been  God’s  will 
that  he  should  end  his  days  in  that  perilous  adventure. 
He  again  repeated  the  message  and  commission  with 
which  he  was  to  go  on  his  behalf  to  his  lady  Dulcinea, 
and  said  he  was  not  to  be  uneasy  as  to  the  payment 
of  his  services,  for  before  leaving  home  he  had  made 
his  will,  in  which  he  would  find  himself  fully  recom- 
pensed in  the  matter  of  wages  in  due  proportion  to 
the  time  he  had  served  ; but  if  God  delivered  him  safe, 
sound,  and  unhurt  out  of  that  danger,  he  might  look 


372 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


upon  the  promised  island  as  much  more  than  certain. 
Sancho  began  weeping  afresh  on  again  hearing  the 
affecting  words  of  his  good  master,  and  resolved  to 
stay  with  him  until  the  final  issue  and  end  of  the  busi- 
ness. From  these  tears  and  this  honorable  resolve  of 
Sancho  Panza’s  the  author  of  this  history  infers  that 
he  must  have  been  of  good  birth  and  at  least  an  old 
Christian;  ^ and  the  feeling  he  displayed  touched  his 
master  somewhat,  but  not  so  much  as  to  make  him 
show  any  weakness  ; on  the  contrary,  hiding  what  he 
felt  as  well  as  he  could,  he  began  to  move  towards 
that  quarter  whence  the  sound  of  the  water  and  of 
the  strokes  seemed  to  come. 

Sancho  followed  him  on  foot,  leading  by  the  halter, 
as  his  custom  was,  his  ass,  his  constant  comrade  in 
prosperity  or  adversity ; and  advancing  some  distance 
through  the  shady  chestnut  trees  they  came  upon  a 
little  meadow  at  the  foot  of  some  high  rocks,  down 
which  a mighty  rush  of  water  flung  itself.  At  the  foot 
of  the  rocks  were  some  rudely  constructed  houses 
looking  more  like  ruins  than  houses,  from  among 
which  came,  they  perceived,  the  din  and  clatter  of 
blows,  which  still  continued  without  intermission. 
Rocinante  took  fright  at  the  noise  of  the  water  and 
of  the  blows,  but  quieting  him  Don  Quixote  advanced 
step  by  step  towards  the  houses,  commending  himself 
with  all  his  heart  to  his  lady,  imploring  her  support 


* An  “ old  Christian”  was  one  who  had  no  trace  of  Moorish  blood  in  his 
veins.  The  remark  is  somewhat  inconsistent  in  the  mouth  of  Cid  Hamet 
Benengeli. 


CHAPTER  XX. 


373 


in  that  dread  pass  and  enterprise,  and  on  the  way- 
commending  himself  to  God,  too,  not  to  forget  him. 
Sancho,  who  never  quitted  his  side,  stretched  his  neck 
as  far  as  he  could  and  peered  between  the  legs  of 
Rocinante  to  see  if  he  could  now  discover  what  it  was 
that  caused  him  such  fear  and  apprehension.  They 
went  it  might  be  a hundred  paces  farther,  when  on 
turning  a corner  the  true  cause,  beyond  the  possibility 
of  any  mistake,  of  that  dread-sounding  and  to  them 
awe-inspiring  noise  that  had  kept  them  all  the  night 
in  such  fear  and  perplexity,  appeared  plain  and  obvi- 
ous ; and  it  was  (if,  reader,  thou  art  not  disgusted  and 
disappointed)  six  fulling  hammers  which  by  their 
alternate  strokes  made  all  the  din. 

When  Don  Quixote  perceived  what  it  was,  he  was 
struck  dumb  and  rigid  from  head  to  foot.  Sancho 
glanced  at  him  and  saw  him  with  his  head  bent  down 
upon  his  breast  in  manifest  mortification ; and  Don 
Quixote  glanced  at  Sancho  and  saw  him  with  his 
cheeks  puffed  out  and  his  mouth  full  of  laughter,  and 
evidently  ready  to  explode  with  it,  and  in  spite  of  his 
vexation  he  could  not  help  laughing  at  the  sight  of 
him  ; and  when  Sancho  saw  his  master  begin  he  let 
go  so  heartily  that  he  had  to  hold  his  sides  with  both 
hands  to  keep  himself  from  bursting  with  laughter. 
Four  times  he  stopped,  and  as  many  times  did  his 
laughter  break  out  afresh  with  the  same  violence  as  at 
first,  whereat  Don  Quixote  grew  furious,  above  all 
when  he  heard  him  say  mockingly,  “Thou  must  know, 
friend  Sancho,  that  of  Heaven’s  will  I was  born  in 


374 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


this  our  iron  age  to  revive  in  it  the  golden  or  age  of 
gold ; I am  he  for  whom  are  reserved  perils,  mighty 
achievements,  valiant  deeds ; ” and  here  he  went  on 
repeating  all  or  most  of  the  words  that  Don  Quixote 
uttered  the  first  time  they  heard  the  awful  strokes. 

Don  Quixote,  then,  seeing  that  Sancho  was  turning 
him  into  ridicule,  was  so  mortified  and  vexed  that  he 
lifted  up  his  pike  and  smote  him  two  such  blows  that 
if,  instead  of  catching  them  on  his  shoulders,  he  had 
caught  them  on  his  head,  there  would  have  been  no 
wages  to  pay,  unless  indeed  to  his  heirs.  Sancho  see- 
ing that  he  was  getting  an  awkward  return  in  earnest 
for  his  jest,  and  fearing  his  master  might  carry  it  still 
further,  said  to  him  very  humbly,  “ Calm  yours^f,  sir, 
for  by  God  I am  only  joking.” 

“ Well,  then,  if  you  are  joking  I am  not,”  replied 
Don  Quixote.  “ Look  here,  my  lively  gentleman,  if 
these,  instead  of  being  fulling  hammers,  had  been 
some  perilous  adventure,  have  I not,  think  you,  shown 
the  courage  required  for  the  attempt  and  achieve- 
ment? Am  I,  perchance,  being,  as  I am,  a gentle- 
man, bound  to  know  and  distinguish  sounds  and  tell 
whether  they  come  from  fulling  mills  or  not ; and  that, 
when  perhaps,  as  is  the  case,  I have  never  in  my  life 
seen  any  as  you  have,  low  boor  as  you  are,  that  have 
been  born  and  bred  among  them?  But  turn  me  these 
six  hammers  into  six  giants,  and  bring  them  to  beard 
me,  one  by  one  or  all  together,  and  if  I do  not  knock 
them  head  over  heels,  then  make  what  mockery  you 
like  of  me.” 


ubraby 

Of  THt 

iNlVtKSlTY  Of  ILUNOIS 


CHAPTER  XX. 


375 


No  more  of  that,  sehor,”  returned  Sancho ; “ I 
own  I went  a little  too  far  with  the  joke.  But  tell  me, 
your  worship,  now  that  peace  is  made  between  us  (and 
may  God  bring  you  out  of  all  the  adventures  that  may 
befell  you  as  safe  and  sound  as  he  has  brought  you 
out  of  this  one),  was  it  not  a thing  to  laugh  at,  and 
is  it  not  a good  story,  the  great  fear  we  were  in  ? — at 
least  that  I was  in ; for  as  to  your  worship  I see  now 
that  you  neither  know  nor  understand  what  either  fear 
or  dismay  is.” 

“ I do  not  deny,”  said  Don  Quixote,  “ that  what 
happened  to  us  may  be  worth  laughing  at,  but  it  is 
not  worth  making  a story  about,  for  it  is  not  every  one 
that  is  shrewd  enough  to  hit  the  right  point  of  a thing.” 

“ At  any  rate,”  said  Sancho,  “ your  worship  knew 
how  to  hit  the  right  point  with  your  pike,  aiming  at 
my  head  and  hitting  me  on  the  shoulders,  thanks  be 
to  God  and  my  own  smartness  in  dodging  it.  But  let 
that  pass ; all  will  come  out  in  the  scouring ; ^ for  I 
have  heard  say  ‘ he  loves  thee  well  that  makes  thee 
weep ; ’ ^ and  moreover  that  it  is  the  way  with  great 
lords  after  any  hard  words  they  give  a servant  to  give 
him  a pair  of  breeches ; though  I do  not  know  what 
they  give  after  blows,  unless  it  be  that  knights-errant 
after  blows  give  islands,  or  kingdoms  on  the  main- 
land.” 

‘‘  It  may  be  on  the  dice,”  said  Don  Quixote,  “ that 
all  thou  sayest  will  come  true ; overlook  the  past,  for 


1 Prov.  S3. 


2 Prov.  130. 


3/6 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


thou  art  shrewd  enough  to  know  that  our  first  move- 
ments are  not  in  our  own  control ; and  one  thing  for 
the  future  bear  in  mind,  that  thou  curb  and  restrain 
thy  loquacity  in  my  company ; for  in  all  the  books  of 
chivalry  that  I have  read,  and  they  are  innumerable,  I 
never  met  with  a squire  who  talked  so  much  to  his 
lord  as  thou  dost  to  thine ; and  in  fact  I feel  it  to  be 
a great  fault  of  thine  and  of  mine  : of  thine,  that  thou 
hast  so  little  respect  for  me ; of  mine,  that  I do  not 
make  myself  more  respected.  There  was  Gandalin, 
the  squire  of  Amadis  of  Gaul,  that  was  Count  of  the 
Insula  Firme,'  and  we  read  of  him  that  he  always 
addressed  his  lord  with  his  cap  in  his  hand,  his  head 
bowed  down  and  his  body  bent  double,  more  turquesco. 
And  then,  what  shall  we  say  of  Gasabal,  the  squire  of 
Galaor,  who  was  so  silent  that  in  order  to  indicate  to 
us  the  greatness  of  his  marvellous  taciturnity  his  name 
is  only  once  mentioned  in  the  whole  of  that  history, 
as  long  as  it  is  truthful?^  From  all  I have  said  thou 
wilt  gather,  Sancho,  that  there  must  be  a difference 
between  master  and  man,  between  lord  and  lackey, 
between  knight  and  squire  : so  that  from  this  day  for- 
ward in  our  intercourse  we  must  observe  more  respect 
and  take  less  liberties,  for  in  whatever  way  I may  be 
provoked  with  you  it  will  be  bad  for  the  pitcher.  3 


1 The  “ Insula  Firme  ” was  apparently  part  of  Brittany. 

2 The  Rev.  John  Bowie,  the  learned  editor  and  annotator  of  Don  Qui- 
xote, was  pains-taking  enough  to  verify  this  statement.  It  shows  how  closely 
Cervantes  must  have  at  one  time  read  the  A madis. 

3 Prov.  34.  In  full  it  is,  “ Whether  the  pitcher  hits  the  stone,  or  the  stone 
the  pitcher,  it’s  bad  for  the  pitcher.” 


CHAPTER  XX. 


377 


The  favors  and  benefits  that  I have  promised  you  will 
come  in  due  time,  and  if  they  do  not  your  wages  at 
least  will  not  be  lost,  as  I have  already  told  you.” 

“ All  that  your  worship  says  is  very  well,”  said 
Sancho,  ‘‘  but  I should  like  to  know  (in  case  the  time 
of  favors  should  not  come,  and  it  might  be  necessary 
to  fall  back  upon  wages)  how  much  did  the  squire  of 
a knight-errant  get  in  those  days,  and  did  they  agree 
by  the  month,  or  by  the  day  like  bricklayers?  ” 

I do  not  believe,”  replied  Don  Quixote,  “ that 
such  squires  were  ever  on  wages,  but  were  dependent 
on  favor ; and  if  I have  now  mentioned  thine  in  the 
sealed  will  I have  left  at  home,  it  was  with  a view  to 
what  may  happen  ; for  as  yet  I know  not  how  chivalry 
will  turn  out  in  these  wretched  times  of  ours,  and  I 
do  not  wish  my  soul  to  suffer  for  trifles  in  the  other 
world ; for  I would  have  thee  know,  Sancho,  that  in 
this  there  is  no  condition  more  hazardous  than  that  of 
adventures.” 

“ That  is  true,”  said  Sancho,  ‘‘  since  the  mere  noise 
of  the  hammers  of  a fulling  mill  can  disturb  and  dis- 
quiet the  heart  of  such  a valiant  errant  adventurer  as 
your  worship ; but  you  may  be  sure  I will  not  open 
my  lips  henceforward  to  make  light  of  any  thing  of 
your  worship’s,  but  only  to  honor  you  as  my  master 
and  natural  lord.” 

‘‘  By  so  doing,”  replied  Don  Quixote,  shalt  thou 
live  long  on  the  face  of  the  earth  ; for  next  to  parents, 
masters  are  to  be  respected  as  though  they  were 
parents.” 


378 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


CHAPTER  XXL 

WHICH  TREATS  OF  THE  EXALTED  ADVENTURE  AND  RICH 
PRIZE  OF  MAMBRINO’S  HELMET,  TOGETHER  WITH  OTHER 
THINGS  THAT  HAPPENED  TO  OUR  INVINCIBLE  KNIGHT. 

It  now  began  to  rain  a little,  and  Sancho  was  for 
going  into  the  fulling  mills,  but  Don  Quixote  had  taken 
such  a disgust  to  them  on  account  of  the  late  joke  that 
he  would  not  enter  them  on  any  account ; so  turn- 
ing aside  to  the  right  they  came  upon  another  road, 
different  from  that  which  they  had  taken  the  night 
before.  Shortly  afterwards  Don  Quixote  perceived  a 
man  on  horseback  who  wore  on  his  head  something 
that  shone  like  gold,  and  the  moment  he  saw  him  he 
turned  to  Sancho  and  said,  I think,  Sancho,  there  is 
no  proverb  that  is  not  true,  all  being  maxims  drawn 
from  experience  itself,  the  mother  of  all  the  sciences, 
especially  that  one  that  says,  ‘ Where  one  door  shuts, 
another  opens.’  * I say  so  because  if  last  night  for- 
tune shut  the  door  of  the  adventure  we  were  looking 
for  against  us,  cheating  us  with  the  fulling  mills,  it  now 
opens  wide  another  one  for  another  better  and  more 
certain  adventure,  and  if  I do  not  contrive  to  enter  it, 


Prov.  194. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 


379 


it  will  be  my  own  fault,  and  I cannot  lay  it  to  my 
ignorance  of  fulling  mills,  or  the  darkness  of  the  night. 
I say  this  because,  if  I mistake  not,  there  comes 
towards  us  one  who  wears  on  his  head  the  helmet  of 
Mambrino,  concerning  which  I took  the  oath  thou 
rememberest.” 

“ Mind  what  you  say,  your  worship,  and  still  more 
what  you  do,”  said  Sancho,  “ for  I don’t  want  any 
more  fulling  mills  to  finish  off  fulling  and  knocking  our 
senses  out.” 

“ The  devil  take  thee,  man,”  said  Don  Quixote ; 
what  has  a helmet  to  do  with  fulling  mills?” 

“ I don’t  know,”  replied  Sancho,  ‘‘  but,  faith,  if  I 
might  speak  as  I used,  perhaps  I could  give  such  rea- 
sons that  your  worship  would  see  you  were  mistaken 
in  what  you  say.” 

“ How  can  I be  mistaken  in  what  I say,  unbelieving 
traitor?”  returned  Don  Quixote;  “tell  me,  seest  thou 
not  yonder  knight  coming  towards  us  on  a dappled 
gray  steed,  who  has  upon  his  head  a helmet  of  gold?  ” 

“What  I see  and  make  out,”  answered  Sancho,  “is 
only  a.  man  on  a gray  ass  like  my  own,  who  has  some- 
thing that  shines  on  his  head.” 

“Well,  that  is  the  helmet  of  Mambrino,”  said  Don 
Quixote ; “ stand  to  one  side  and  leave  me  alone  with 
him ; thou  shalt  see  how,  without  saying  a word,  to 
save  time,  I shall  bring  this  adventure  to  an  issue 
and  possess  myself  of  the  helmet  I have  so  longed 
for.” 

“ I will  take  care  to  stand  aside,”  said  Sancho ; 


38o 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


‘‘  but  God  grant,  I say  once  more,  that  it  may  be  mar- 
joram and  not  fulling  mills.”  ' 

I have  told  thee,  brother,  on  no  account  to  men- 
tion those  fulling  mills  to  me  again,”  said  Don  Qui- 
xote, or  I vow  — and  I say  no  more  — I’ll  full  the 
soul  out  of  you.” 

Sancho  held  his  peace  in  dread  lest  his  master 
should  carry  out  the  vow  he  had  hurled  like  a bowl  at 
him. 

The  fact  of  the  matter  as  regards  the  helmet,  steed, 
and  knight  that  Don  Quixote  saw,  was  this.  In  that 
neighborhood  there  were  two  villages,  one  of  them  so 
small  that  it  had  neither  apothecary’s  shop,  nor  barber, 
which  the  other  that  was  close  to  it  had,  so  the  barber 
of  the  larger  served  the  smaller,  and  in  it  there  was  a 
sick  man  who  required  to  be  bled  and  another  man 
who  wanted  to  be  shaved,  and  on  this  errand  the 
barber  was  going,  carrying  with  him  a brass  basin ; 
but  as  luck  would  have  it,  as  he  was  on  the  way  it 
began  to  rain,  and  not  to  spoil  his  hat,  which  probably 
was  a new  one,  he  put  the  basin  on  his  head,  and  be- 
ing clean  it  glittered  at  half  a league’s  distance.  He 
rode  upon  a gray  ass,  as  Sancho  said,  and  this  was  what 
made  it  seem  to  Don  Quixote  to  be  a dapple-gray 
steed  and  a knight  and  a golden  helmet ; for  every 
thing  he  saw  he  made  to  fall  in  with  his  crazy  chivalry 

^ Prov.  i6o.  In  full,  “ Plegue  d Dios  que  oregano  sea,  y no  se  nos 
vuelva  alcaravea.”  — “ Pray  God  it  may  prove  wild  marjoram,  and  not  turn 
out  caraway  on  us."  Shelton  and  Jervas  not  knowing  the  proverb  have  mis- 
translated the  passage ; the  latter  shirks  the  difficulty,  and  the  former  trans- 
lates oregatio  “ a purchase  of  gold.” 


CHAPTER  XXL 


381 


and  ill-errant  ‘ notions ; and  when  he  saw  the  poor 
knight  draw  near,  without  entering  into  any  parley 
with  him,  at  Rocinante’s  top  speed  he  bore  down 
upon  him  with  the  pike  pointed  low,  fully  determined 
to  run  him  through  and  through,  and  as  he  reached  him, 
without  checking  the  fury  of  his  charge,  he  cried  to 
him,  “ Defend  thyself,  miserable  being,  or  yield  me  of 
thine  own  accord  that  which  is  so  reasonably  my  due.” 

The  barber,  who  without  any  expectation  or  appre- 
hension of  it  saw  this  apparition  coming  down  upon 
him,  had  no  other  way  of  saving  himself  from  the 
stroke  of  the  lance  but  to  let  himself  fall  off  his  ass ; 
and  no  sooner  had  he  touched  the  ground  than  he 
sprang  up  more  nimbly  than  a deer  and  sped  away 
across  the  plain  faster  than  the  wind. 

He  left  the  basin  on  the  ground,  with  which  Don 
Quixote  contented  himself,  saying  that  the  pagan  had 
shown  his  discretion  and  imitated  the  beaver,  which 
finding  itself  pressed  by  the  hunters  bites  and  cuts  off 
with  its  teeth  that  for  which,  by  its  natural  instinct,  it 
knows  it  is  pursued. 

He  told  Sancho  to  pick  up  the  helmet,  and  he  tak- 
ing it  in  his  hands  said,  “ By  God  the  basin  is  a good 
one,  and  worth  a real  of  eight  ^ if  it  is  worth  a mara- 
vedi,”  and  handed  it  to  his  master,  who  immediately 
put  it  on  his  head,  turning  it  round,  now  this  way, 
now  that,  in  search  of  the  visor,  and  not  finding  it 
he  said,  ‘‘  Clearly  the  pagan  to  whose  measure  this 


Mal-andante,  meaning  also  “ unlucky.” 
The  eight-real  piece  = about  Zd. 


382 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


famous  head-piece  was  first  forged  must  have  had  a 
very  large  head ; but  the  worst  of  it  is  half  of  it  is 
wanting.” 

When  Sancho  heard  him  call  the  basin  a head-piece 
he  was  unable  to  restrain  his  laughter,  but  remember- 
ing his  master’s  wrath  he  checked  himself  in  the  midst 
of  it. 

‘‘What  art  thou  laughing  at,  Sancho?”  said  Don 
Quixote. 

“ I am  laughing,”  said  he,  “ to  think  of  the  great 
head  the  pagan  must  have  had  who  owned  this  hel- 
met, for  it  looks  exactly  like  a regular  barber’s  basin.” 

“Dost  thou  know  what  I suspect,  Sancho?”  said 
Don  Quixote ; “ that  this  wonderful  piece  of  this  en- 
chanted helmet  must  by  some  strange  accident  have 
come  into  the  hands  of  some  one  who  was  unable  to 
recognize  or  realize  its  value,  and  who,  not  knowing 
what  he  did,  and  seeing  it  to  be  of  the  purest  gold, 
must  have  melted  down  one  half  for  the  sake  of  what 
it  might  be  worth,  and  of  the  other  made  this  which  is 
like  a barber’s  basin  as  thou  sayest ; but  be  it  as  it 
may,  to  me  who  recognize  it,  its  transformation  makes 
no  difference,  for  I will  set  it  to  rights  at  the  first 
village  where  there  is  a blacksmith,  and  in  such  style 
that  that  helmet  the  god  of  smithies  forged  for  the 
god  of  battles  shall  not  surpass  it  or  even  come  up  to 
it ; and  in  the  mean  time  I will  wear  it  as  well  as  I 
can,  for  something  is  better  than  nothing ; ' all  the 


^ Prov.  lo. 


C //AFTER  XX/.  383 

more  as  it  will  be  quite  enough  to  protect  me  from 
any  chance  blow  of  a stone.” 

“ That  is,”  said  Sancho,  “ if  it  is  not  shot  with  a 
sling  as  they  were  in  the  battle  of  the  two  armies, 
when  they  signed  the  cross  on  your  worship’s  grinders 
and  smashed  the  flask  with  that  blessed  draught  that 
made  me  vomit  my  bowels  up.” 

It  does  not  grieve  me  much  to  have  lost  it,”  said 
Don  Quixote,  for  thou  knowest,  Sancho,  that  I have 
the  receipt  in  my  memory.” 

“ So  have  I,”  answered  Sancho,  ‘‘  but  if  ever  I make 
it,  or  try  it  again  as  long  as  I live,  may  this  be  my  last 
hour ; moreover,  I have  no  intention  of  putting  myself 
in  the  way  of  wanting  it,  for  I mean,  with  all  my  five 
senses,  to  keep  myself  from  being  wounded  or  from 
wounding  any  one  : as  to  being  blanketed  again  I say 
nothing,  for  it  is  hard  to  prevent  mishaps  of  that  sort, 
and  if  they  come  there  is  nothing  for  it  but  to  squeeze 
our  shoulders  together,  hold  our  breath,  shut  our  eyes, 
and  let  ourselves  go  where  luck  and  the  blanket  may 
send  us.” 

Thou  art  a bad  Christian,  Sancho,”  said  Don 
Quixote  on  hearing  this,  for  once  an  injury  has  been 
done  thee  thou  never  forgettest  it : but  know  that  it  is 
the  part  of  noble  and  generous  hearts  not  to  attach 
importance  to  trifles.  What  lame  leg  hast  thou  got  by 
it,  what  broken  rib,  what  cracked  head,  that  thou  canst 
not  forget  that  jest?  For  jest  and  sport  it  was,  prop- 
erly regarded,  and  had  I not  seen  it  in  that  light  I 
would  have  returned  and  done  more  mischief  in  reven- 


384 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


ging  thee  than  the  Greeks  did  for  the  rape  of  Helen, 
who,  if  she  were  alive  now,  or  if  my  Dulcinea  had  lived 
then,  might  depend  upon  it  she  would  not  be  so  fa- 
mous for  her  beauty  as  she  is ; ” and  here  he  heaved  a 
sigh  and  sent  it  aloft ; and  said  Sancho,  Let  it  pass 
for  a jest  as  it  cannot  be  revenged  in  earnest,  but  I 
know  what  sort  of  jest  and  earnest  it  was,  and  I know 
it  will  never  be  rubbed  out  of  my  memory  any  more 
than  off  my  shoulders.  But  putting  that  aside,  will 
your  worship  tell  me  what  are  we  to  do  with  this 
dapple-gray  steed  that  looks  like  a gray  ass,  which  that 
Martino  ' that  your  worship  overthrew  has  left  deserted 
here?  for,  from  the  way  he  took  to  his  heels  and 
bolted,  he  is  not  likely  ever  to  come  back  for  it ; and 
by  my  beard  but  the  gray  is  a good  one.” 

I have  never  been  in  the  habit,”  said  Don  Quixote, 
of  taking  spoil  of  those  whom  I vanquish,  nor  is  it 
the  practice  of  chivalry  to  take  away  their  horses  and 
leave  them  to  go  on  foot,  unless  indeed  it  be  that  the 
victor  have  lost  his  own  in  the  combat,  in  which  case 
it  is  lawful  to  take  that  of  the  vanquished  as  a thing 
won  in  lawful  war ; therefore,  Sancho,  leave  this  horse, 
or  ass,  or  whatever  thou  wilt  have  it  to  be  ; for  when 
its  owner  sees  us  gone  hence  he  will  come  back 
for  it.” 

‘‘  God  knows  I should  like  to  take  it,”  returned 
Sancho,  “ or  at  least  to  change  it  for  my  own,  which 
does  not  seem  to  me  as  good  a one  : verily  the  laws  of 


’ A blunder  of  Sancho’s  for  Mambrino. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 


385 


chivalry  are  strict,  since  they  cannot  be  stretched  to 
let  one  ass  be  changed  for  another;  I should  like 
to  know  if  I might  at  least  change  trappings.” 

‘‘  On  that  head  I am  not  quite  certain,”  answered 
Don  Quixote,  and  the  matter  being  doubtful,  pend- 
ing better  information,  I say  thou  mayest  change  them, 
if  so  be  thou  hast  urgent  need  of  them.” 

So  urgent  is  it,”  answered  Sancho,  “ that  if  they 
were  for  my  own  person  I could  not  want  them 
more ; ” and  forthwith,  fortified  by  this  license,  he 
effected  the  7nutatio  capparmn,^  and  rigged  out  his 
beast  to  the  ninety-nines,  making  quite  another  thing 
of  it.  This  done,  they  broke  their  fast  on  the  remains 
of  the  spoils  of  war  plundered  from  the  sumpter  mule, 
and  drank  of  the  brook  that  flowed  from  the  fulling 
mills,  without  casting  a look  in  that  direction,  in  such 
loathing  did  they  hold  them  for  the  alarm  they  had 
caused  them  ; and,  all  anger  and  gloom  removed,  they 
mounted  and,  without  taking  any  fixed  road  (not  to 
fix  upon  any  being  the  proper  thing  for  true  knights- 
errant),  they  set  out,  guided  by  Rocinante’s  will,  which 
carried  along  with  it  that  of  his  master,  not  to  say  that 
of  the  ass,  which  always  followed  him  wherever  he  led, 
lovingly  and  sociably ; nevertheless  they  returned  to 
the  high  road,  and  pursued  it  at  a venture  without  any 
other  aim. 


* The  mutatio  capparum  was  the  change  of  hoods  authorized  by  the 
Roman  ceremonial,  when  the  cardinals  exchanged  the  fur-lined  hoods  worn  in 
winter  for  lighter  ones  of  silk.  There  is  a certain  audacity  of  humor  in  the 
application  of  the  phrase  here. 


386 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


As  they  went  along,  then,  in  this  way  Sancho  said 
to  his  master,  ‘‘  Sehor,  would  your  worship  give  me 
leave  to  speak  a little  to  you?  For  since  you  laid  that 
hard  injunction  of  silence  on  me  several  things  have 
gone  to  rot  in  my  stomach,  and  I have  now  just  one 
on  the  tip  of  my  tongue  that  I don’t  want  to  be 
spoiled.” 

‘‘  Say  on,  Sancho,”  said  Don  Quixote,  and  be  brief 
in  thy  discourse,  for  there  is  no  pleasure  in  one  that  is 
long.” 

“ Well  then,  sehor,”  returned  Sancho,  I say  that 
for  some  days  past  I have  been  considering  how  little 
is  got  or  gained  by  going  in  search  of  these  adven- 
tures that  your  worship  seeks  in  these  wilds  and  cross- 
roads, where,  even  if  the  most  perilous  are  victoriously 
achieved,  there  is  no  one  to  see  or  know  of  them, 
and  so  they  must  be  left  untold  forever,  to  the  loss  of 
your  worship’s  object  and  the  credit  they  deserve  \ 
therefore  it  seems  to  me  it  would  be  better  (saving 
your  worship’s  better  judgment)  if  we  were  to  go  and 
serve  some  emperor  or  other  great  prince  who  may 
have  some  war  on  hand,  in  whose  service  your  wor- 
ship may  prove  the  worth  of  your  person,  your  great 
might,  and  greater  understanding,  on  perceiving  which 
the  lord  in  whose  service  we  may  be  will  perforce  have 
to  reward  us,  each  according  to  his  merits ; and  there 
you  will  not  be  at  a loss  for  some  one  to  set  down 
your  achievements  in  writing  so  as  to  preserve  their 
memory  forever.  Of  my  own  I say  nothing,  as  they 
will  not  go  beyond  squirely  limits,  though  I make  bold 


CHAPTER  XXI. 


387 


to  say  that,  if  it  be  the  practice  in  chivalry  to  write  the 
achievements  of  squires,  I think  mine  must  not  be  left ' 
out.” 

“Thou  speakest  not  amiss,  Sancho,”  answered  Don 
Quixote,  “ but  before  that  point  is  reached  it  is  requi- 
site to  roam  the  world,  as  it  were  on  probation,  seek- 
ing adventures,  in  order  that,  by  achieving  some,  name 
and  fame  may  be  acquired,  such  that  when  he  betakes 
himself  to  the  court  of  some  great  monarch  the  knight 
may  be  already  known  by  his  deeds,  and  that  the  boys, 
the  instant  they  see  him  enter  the  gate  of  the  city,  may 
all  follow  him  and  surround  him,  crying,  ‘ This  is  the 
Knight  of  the  Sun  ’ — or  the  Serpent,  or  any  other 
title  under  which  he  may  have  achieved  great  deeds. 

‘ This,’  they  will  say,  ^ is  he  who  vanquished  in  single 
combat  the  gigantic  Brocabruno  of  mighty  strength ; 
he  who  delivered  the  great  Mameluke  of  Persia  out  of 
the  long  enchantment  under  which  he  had  been  for 
almost  nine  hundred  years.’ ' So  from  one  to  another 
they  will  go  proclaiming  his  achievements ; and  pres- 
ently at  the  tumult  of  the  boys  and  the  others  the  king 
of  that  kingdom  will  appear  at  the  windows  of  his 
royal  palace,  and  as  soon  as  he  beholds  the  knight, 
recognizing  him  by  his  arms  and  the  device  on  his 
shield,  he  will  as  a matter  of  course  say,  ‘ What  ho  ! 
Forth  all  ye,  the  knights  of  my  court,  to  receive  the 
flower  of  chivalry  who  cometh  hither  ! ’ At  which 


^ Cervantes  gives  here  an  admirable  epitome,  and  without  any  extrava- 
gant caricature,  of  a typical  romance  of  chivalry.  For  every  incident  there  is 
ample  authority  in  the  romances. 


388 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


command  all  will  issue  forth,  and  he  himself,  advancing 
half-way  down  the  stairs,  will  embrace  him  closely, 
and  salute  him,  kissing  him  on  the  cheek,  and  will 
then  lead  him  to  the  queen’s  chamber,  where  the 
knight  will  find  her  with  the  princess  her  daughter, 
who  will  be  one  of  the  most  beautiful  and  accomplished 
damsels  that  could  with  the  utmost  pains  be  discovered 
anywhere  in  the  known  world.  Straightway  it  will 
cornie  to  pass  that  she  will  fix  her  eyes  upon  the  knight 
and  he  his  upon  her,  and  each  will  seem  to  the  other 
something  more  divine  than  human,  and,  without 
knowing  how  or  why,  they  will  be  taken  and  entangled 
in  the  inextricable  toils  of  love,  and  sorely  distressed 
in  their  hearts  not  to  see  any  way  of  making  their 
pains  and  sufferings  known  by  speech.  Thence  they 
will  lead  him,  no  doubt,  to  some  richly  adorned  cham- 
ber of  the  palace,  where,  having  removed  his  armor, 
they  will  bring  him  a rich  mantle  of  scarlet  wherewith 
to  robe  himself,  and  if  he  looked  noble  in  his  armor 
he  will  look  still  more  so  in  a doublet.  When  night 
comes  he  will  sup  with  the  king,  queen,  and  princess ; 
and  all  the  time  he  will  never  take  his  eyes  off  her, 
stealing  stealthy  glances,  unnoticed  by  those  present, 
and  she  will  do  the  same,  and  with  equal  cautiousness, 
being,  as  I have  said,  a damsel  of  great  discretion. 
The  tables  being  removed,  suddenly  through  the  door 
of  the  hall  there  will  enter  a hideous  and  diminutive 
dwarf  followed  by  a fair  dame,  between  two  giants, 
who  comes  with  a certain  adventure,  the  work  of  an 
ancient  sage ; and  he  who  shall  achieve  it  shall  be 


CHAPTER  XXI. 


389 


deemed  the  best  knight  in  the  world.  ‘ The  king  will 
then  command  all  those  present  to  essay  it,  and  none 
will  bring  it  to  an  end  and  conclusion  save  the  stranger 
knight,  to  the  great  enhancement  of  his  fame,  whereat 
the  princess  will  be  overjoyed  and  will  esteem  herself 
happy  and  fortunate  in  having  fixed  and  placed  her 
thoughts  so  high.  And  the  best  of  it  is  that  this  king, 
or  prince,  or  whatever  he  is,  is  engaged  in  a very  bitter 
war  with  another  as  powerful  as  himself,  and  the 
stranger  knight,  after  having  been  some  days  at  his 
court,  requests  leave  from  him  to  go  and  serve  him  in 
the  said  war.  The  king  will  grant  it  very  readily,  and 
the  knight  will  courteously  kiss  his  hands  for  the  favor 
done  to  him  ; and  that  night  he  will  take  leave  of  his 
lady  the  princess  at  the  grating  of  the  chamber  where 
she  sleeps,  which  looks  upon  a garden,  and  at  which 
he  has  already  many  times  conversed  with  her,  the  go- 
between  and  confidante  in  the  matter  being  a damsel 
much  trusted  by  the  princess.  He  will  sigh,  she  will 
swoon,  the  damsel  will  fetch  water,  he  will  be  distressed 
because  morning  approaches,  and  for  the  honor  of  his 
lady  he  would  not  that  they  were  discovered ; at  last 
the  princess  will  come  to  herself  and  will  present  her 
white  hands  through  the  grating  to  the  knight,  who 
will  kiss  them  a thousand  and  a thousand  times,  bath- 
ing them  with  his  tears.  It  will  be  arranged  between 


* Hartzenbusch,  considering  “ adventure  ” unintelligible,  would  substitute 
“enigma”  or  “prophecy”  for  it;  and  “explain”  for  “achieve;  ” but  abso- 
lute consistency  in  a burlesque  passage  like  this  is  scarcely  worth  insisting 
upon. 


390 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


them  how  they  are  to  inform  each  other  of  their  good 
or  evil  fortunes,  and  the  princess  will  entreat  him  to 
make  his  absence  as  short  as  possible,  which  he  will 
promise  to  do  with  many  oaths ; once  more  he  kisses 
her  hands,  and  takes  his  leave  in  such  grief  that  he  is 
well-nigh  ready  to  die.  He  betakes  him  thence  to  his 
chamber,  flings  himself  on  his  bed,  cannot  sleep  for 
sorrow  at  parting,  rises  early  in  the  morning,  goes  to 
take  leave  of  the  king,  queen,  and  princess,  and,  as  he 
takes  his  leave  of  the  pair,  it  is  told  him  that  the 
princess  is  indisposed  and  cannot  receive  a visit ; the 
knight  thinks  it  is  from  grief  at  his  departure,  his  heart 
is  pierced,  and  he  is  hardly  able  to  keep  from  showing 
his  pain.  The  confidante  is  present,  observes  all,  goes 
to  tell  her  mistress,  who  listens  with  tears  and  says  that 
one  of  her  greatest  distresses  is  not  knowing  who  this 
knight  is,  and  whether  he  is  of  kingly  lineage  or  not ; 
the  damsel  assures  her  that  so  much  courtesy,  gentle- 
ness, and  gallantry  of  bearing  as  her  knight  possesses 
could  not  exist  in  any  save  one  who  was  royal  and 
illustrious  ; her  anxiety  is  thus  relieved,  and  she  strives 
to  be  of  good  cheer  lest  she  should  excite  suspicion  in 
her  parents,  and  at  the  end  of  two  days  she  appears  in 
public.  Meanwhile  the  knight  has  taken  his  depart- 
ure ; he  fights  in  the  war,  conquers  the  king’s  enemy, 
wins  many  cities,  triumphs  in  many  battles,  returns  to 
the  court,  sees  his  lady  where  he  was  wont  to  see  her, 
and  it  is  agreed  that  he  shall  demand  her  in  marriage 
of  her  parents  as  the  reward  of  his  services  ; the  king 
is  unwilling  to  give  her,  as  he  knows  not  who  he  is,  but 


CHAPTER  XXL 


391 


nevertheless,  whether  carried  off  or  in  whatever  other 
way  it  may  be,  the  princess  comes  to  be  his  bride,  and 
her  father  comes  to  regard  it  as  very  good  fortune  ; for 
it  so  happens  that  this  knight  is  proved  to  be  the  son 
of  a valiant  king  of  some  kingdom,  I know  not  what, 
for  I fancy  it  is  not  likely  to  be  on  the  map ; the  father 
dies,  the  princess  inherits,  and  in  two  words  the  knight 
becomes  king.  And  here  comes  in  at  once  the  be- 
stowal of  rewards  upon  his  squire  and  all  who  have 
aided  him  in  rising  to  so  exalted  a rank.  He  marries 
his  squire  to  a damsel  of  the  princess’s,  who  will  be, 
no  doubt,  the  one  who  was  confidante  in  their  amour, 
and  is  daughter  of  a very  great  duke.” 

‘‘That’s  what  I want,  and  no  mistake  about  it!” 
said  Sancho.  “ That’s  what  I’m  waiting  for ; for 
all  this,  word  for  word,  is  in  store  for  your  worship 
under  the  title  of  The  Knight  of  the  Rueful  Counte- 
nance.” 

“ Thou  needst  not  doubt  it,  Sancho,”  replied  Don 
Quixote,  “ for  in  the  same  manner,  and  by  the  same 
steps  as  I have  described  here,  knights -errant  rise  and 
have  risen  to  be  kings  and  emperors  ; all  we  want  now 
is  to  find  out  what  king,  Christian  or  pagan,  is  at  war 
and  has  a beautiful  daughter ; but  there  will  be  time 
enough  to  think  of  that,  for,  as  I have  told  thee,  fame 
must  be  won  in  other  quarters  before  repairing  to  the 
court.  There  is  another  thing,  too,  that  is  wanting ; 
for  supposing  we  find  a king  who  is  at  war  and  has  a 
beautiful  daughter,  and  that  I have  won  incredible 
fame  throughout  the  universe,  I know  not  how  it  can 


392 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


be  made  out  that  I am  of  royal  lineage,  or  even  second 
cousin  to  an  emperor ; for  the  king  will  not  be  willing 
to  give  me  his  daughter  in  marriage  unless  he  is  first 
thoroughly  satisfied  on  this  point,  however  much  my 
famous  deeds  may  deserve  it ; so  that  by  this  de- 
ficiency I fear  I shall  lose  what  my  arm  has  fairly 
earned.  True  it  is  I am  a gentleman  of  a known 
house,  of  estate  and  property,  and  entitled  to  the  five 
hundred  sueldos  mulct ; ^ and  it  may  be  that  the  sage 
who  shall  write  my  history  will  so  clear  up  my  ancestry 
and  pedigree  that  I may  find  myself  fifth  or  sixth  in 
descent  from  a king;  for  I would  have  thee  know, 
Sancho,  that  there  are  two  kinds  of  lineages  in  the 
world ; some  there  be  tracing  and  deriving  their  de- 
scent from  kings  and  princes,  whom  time  has  reduced 
little  by  little  until  they  end  in  a point  like  a pyramid 
upside  down  ; and  others  who  spring  from  the  common 
herd  and  go  on  rising  step  by  step  until  they  come  to 
be  great  lords ; so  that  the  difference  is  that  the  one 
were  what  they  no  longer  are,  and  the  others  are  what 
they  formerly  were  not.  And  I may  be  of  such  that 
after  investigation  my  origin  may  prove  great  and 
famous,  with  which  the  king,  my  father-in-law  that  is 
to  be,  ought  to  be  satisfied ; and  should  he  not  be, 
the  princess  will  so  love  me  that  even  though  she  well 

* A “ hidalgo  de  devengar  quinientos  sueldos,”  was  one  who  by  the 
ancient  fueros  of  Castile  had  a right  to  recover  500  sueldos  for  an  injury  to 
person  or  property.  This  is  the  common  explanation;  Huarte,  in  the  Ex- 
amen  de  Ingentos,  says  it  means  the  descendant  of  one  who  enjoyed  a grant 
of  500  sueldos  for  distinguished  services  in  the  field.  The  sueldo  was  an  old 
coin  varying  in  value  from  a halfpenny  to  three-halfpence. 


CHAPTER  XXL 


393 


knew  me  to  be  the  son  of  a water-carrier,  she  will  take 
me  for  her  lord  and  husband  in  spite  of  her  father ; if 
not,  then  it  comes  to  seizing  her  and  carrying  her  off 
where  I please ; for  time  or  death  will  put  an  end  to 
the  wrath  of  her  parents.” 

“ It  comes  to  this,  too,”  said  Sancho,  ‘‘what  some 
naughty  people  say,  ‘ Never  ask  as  a favor  what  thou 
canst  take  by  force  ; ’ ‘ though  it  would  fit  better  to  say, 
‘ A clear  escape  is  better  than  good  men’s  prayers.’  ^ 
I say  so  because  if  my  lord  the  king,  your  worship’s 
father-in-law,  will  not  condescend  to  give  you  my  lady 
the  princess,  there  is  nothing  for  it  but,  as  your  worship 
says,  to  seize  her  and  transport  her.  But  the  mischief 
is  that  until  peace  is  made  and  you  come  into  the 
peaceful  enjoyment  of  your  kingdom,  the  poor  squire 
is  famishing  as  far  as  rewards  go,  unless  it  be  that  the 
confidante  damsel  that  is  to  be  his  wife  comes  with 
the  princess,  and  that  with  her  he  tides  over  his  bad 
luck  until  Heaven  otherwise  orders  things ; for  his 
master,  I suppose,  may  as  well  give  her  to  him  at  once 
for  a lawful  wife.” 

“ Nobody  can  object  to  that,”  said  Don  Quixote. 

“Then  since  that  may  be,”  said  Sancho,  “there  is 
nothing  for  it  but  to  commend  ourselves  to  God,  and 
let  fortune  take  what  course  it  will.” 

“ God  guide  it  according  to  my  wishes  and  thy 

^ Prov.  107 

2 Prov.  212.  “ Mas  vale  salto  de  mata  que  ruego  de  hombres  buenos.” 

Mata  is  here  an  old  equivalent  of  7/iatauza~“  slaughter;  ” in  modern 
Spanish  the  word  means  a bush  or  hedge,  in  consequence  of  which  the 
proverb  is  generally  misunderstood  and  mistranslated. 


394 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


wants,”  said  Don  Quixote,  ‘‘  and  mean  be  he  who 
makes  himself  mean.”  ^ 

“ In  God’s  name  let  him  be  so,”  said  Sancho ; “ I 
am  an  old  Christian,  and  to  fit  me  for  a count  that’s 
enough.”  ^ 

‘GA.nd  more  than  enough  for  thee,”  said  Don 
Quixote ; “ and  even  wert  thou  not,  it  would  make  no 
difference,  because  I being  the  king  can  easily  give 
thee  nobility  without  purchase  or  service  rendered  by 
thee,  for  when  I make  thee  a count,  then  thou  art  at 
once  a gentleman ; and  they  may  say  what  they  will, 
but  by  my  faith  they  will  have  to  call  thee  ‘ your  lord- 
ship,’  whether  they  like  it  or  not.” 

“ Not  a doubt  of  it ; and  I’ll  know  how  to  support 
the  tittle,”  said  Sancho. 

“ Title  thou  shouldst  say,  not  tittle,”  said  his 
master. 

“ So  be  it,”  answered  Sancho,  I say  I will  know 
how  to  behave,  for  once  in  my  life  I was  beadle  of  a 
brotherhood,  and  the  beadle’s  gown  sat  so  well  on  me 
that  all  said  I looked  as  if  I was  fit  to  be  steward  of 
the  same  brotherhood.  What  will  it  be,  then,  when  I 
put  a duke’s  robe  on  my  back,  or  dress  myself  in  gold 
and  pearls  like  a foreign  count?  I believe  they  will 
come  a hundred  leagues  to  see  me.” 

“Thou  wilt  look  well,”  said  Don  Quixote,  “but 
thou  must  shave  thy  beard  often,  for  thou  hast  it  so 
thick  and  rough  and  unkempt,  that  if  thou  dost  not 


* Prov.  210. 


2 Prov.  6i.  V.  note,  p.  372. 


CHAPTER  XXL 


395 


shave  it  every  second  day  at  least,  they  will  see  what 
thou  art  at  the  distance  of  a musket  shot.” 

“ What  more  will  it  be,”  said  Sancho,  “ than  having 
a barber,  and  keeping  him  at  wages  in  the  house  ? and 
even  if  it  be  necessary,  I will  make  him  go  behind  me 
like  a nobleman’s  equerry.” 

‘‘Why,  how  dost  thou  know  that  noblemen  have 
equerries  behind  them?”  asked  Don  Quixote. 

“ I will  tell  you,”  answered  Sancho.  “ Years  ago  I 
was  for  a month  at  the  capital,*  and  there  I saw  taking 
the  air  a very  small  gentleman  who  they  said  was  a 
very  great  man,^  and  a man  following  him  on  horse- 
back in  every  turn  he  took,  just  as  if  he  was  his  tail. 
I asked  why  this  man  did  not  join  the  other  man, 
instead  of  always  going  behind  him ; they  answered 
me  that  he  was  his  equerry,  and  that  it  was  the  custom 
with  nobles  to  have  such  persons  behind  them,  and 
ever  since  then  I know  it,  for  I have  never  forgotten 
it.” 

“Thou  art  right,”  said  Don  Quixote,  “and  in  the 
same  way  thou  rnayest  carry  thy  barber  with  thee,  for 
customs  did  not  come  into  use  all  together,  nor  were 
they  all  invented  at  once,  and  thou  rnayest  be  the  first 
count  to  have  a barber  to  follow  him ; and,  indeed, 
shaving  one’s  beard  is  a greater  trust  than  saddling 
one’s  horse.” 


^ Literally  “ at  the  Court  ” — la  Corte. 

2 No  doubt  Pedro  Tellez  Giron,  third  Duke  of  Osuna,  afterwards  Viceroy 
in  Sicily  and  Naples;  “a  little  man,  but  of  great  fame  and  fortunes,”  as 
Howell,  writing  twenty  years  later,  calls  him. 


396 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


“ Let  the  barber  business  be  my  look-out,”  said 
Sancho  ; ‘‘and  your  worship’s  be  it  to  strive  to  become 
a king,  and  make  me  a count.” 

“ So  it  shall  be,”  answered  Don  Quixote,  and  rais- 
ing his  eyes  he  saw  what  will  be  told  in  the  following 
chapter. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 


397 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

OF  THE  FREEDOM  DON  QUIXOTE  CONFERRED  ON  SEV- 
ERAL UNFORTUNATES  WHO  AGAINST  THEIR  WILL  WERE 
BEING  CARRIED  WHERE  THEY  HAD  NO  WISH  TO  GO. 

CiD  Hamet  Benengeli,  the  Arab  and  Manchegan 
author,  relates  in  this  most  grave,  high-sounding, 
minute,  delightful,  and  original  history  that  after  the 
discussion  between  the  famous  Don  Quixote  of  La 
Mancha  and  his  squire  Sancho  Panza  which  is  set 
down  at  the  end  of  chapter  twenty-one,  Don  Quixote 
raised  his  eyes  and  saw  coming  along  the  road  he  was 
following  some  dozen  men  on  foot  strung  together  by 
the  neck,  like  beads,  on  a great  iron  chain,  and  all 
witl^  manacles  on  their  hands.  With  them  there  came 
alsb  two  men  on  horseback  and  two  on  foot ; those 
on^  horseback  with  wheel-lock  muskets,  those  on  foot 
with  javelins  and  swords,  and  as  soon  as  Sancho  saw 
then!  he  said,  “ That  is  a chain  of  galley  slaves,  on 
the  Way  to  the  galleys  by  force  of  the  king’s  orders.” 

How  by  force  ? ” asked  Don  Quixote  ; “ is  it  pos- 
sible tjiat  the  king  uses  force  against  any  one? ” 

“ I »do  not  say  that,”  answered  Sancho,  “ but  that 
these  are  people  condemned  for  their  crimes  to  serve 
by  force  in  the  king’s  galleys.” 

“ In  fact,”  replied  Don  Quixote,  however  it  may 


398 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


be,  these  people  are  going  where  they  are  taking  them 
by  force,  and  not  of  their  own  will.” 

‘‘Just  so,”  said  Sancho. 

“Then  if  so,”  said  Don  Quixote,  “here  is  a case 
for  the  exercise  of  my  office,  to  put  down  force  and 
to  succor  and  help  the  wretched.” 

“ Recollect,  your  worship,”  said  Sancho,  “ Justice, 
which  is  the  king  himself,  is  not  using  force  or  doing 
wrong  to  such  persons,  but  punishing  them  for  their 
crimes.” 

The  chain  of  galley  slaves  had  by  this  time  come 
up,  and  Don  Quixote  in  very  courteous  language  asked 
those  who  were  in  custody  of  it  to  be  good  enough 
to  tell  him  the  reason  or  reasons  for  which  they  were 
conducting  these  people  in  this  manner.  One  of  the 
guards  on  horseback  answered  that  they  were  galley 
slaves  belonging  to  his  majesty,  that  they  were  going 
to  the  galleys,  and  that  was  all  that  was  to  be  said  and 
all  he  had  any  business  to  know. 

“ Nevertheless,”  replied  Don  Quixote,  “ I should 
like  to  know  from  each  of  them  separately  the  reason 
of  his  misfortune ; ” to  this  he  added  more  to  the 
same  effect  to  induce  them  to  tell  him  what  he  wanted 
so  civilly  that  the  other  mounted  guard  said  to  him, 
“ Though  we  have  here  the  register  and  certificate  of 
the  sentence  of  every  one  of  these  wretches,  this  is  no 
time  to  take  them  out  or  read  them ; come  and  ask 
themselves  ; they  can  tell  if  they  choose,  and  they  will, 
for  these  fellows  take  a pleasure  in  doing  and  talking 
about  rascalities.” 


CHAPTEK  XX/I. 


399 


With  this  permission,  which  Don  Quixote  would 
have  taken  even  had  they  not  granted  it,  he  ap- 
proached the  chain  and  asked  the  first  for  what 
offences  he  was  now  in  such  a sorry  case. 

He  made  answer  that  it  was  for  being  a lover. 

“ For  that  only?  ” replied  Don  Quixote  ; why,  if 
for  being  lovers  they  send  people  to  the  galleys  I 
might  have  been  rowing  in  them  long  ago.” 

“ The  love  is  not  the  sort  your  worship  is  thinking 
of,”  said  the  galley  slave ; “ mine  was  that  I loved  a 
washerwoman’s  basket  of  clean  linen  so  well,  and  held 
it  so  close  in  my  embrace,  that  if  the  arm  of  the  law 
had  not  forced  it  from  me,  I should  never  have  let  it 
go  of  my  own  will  to  this  moment ; I was  caught  in 
the  act,  there  was  no  occasion  for  torture,  the  case 
was  settled,  they  treated  me  to  a hundred  lashes  on 
the  back,  and  three  years  of  gurapas  besides,  and  that 
was  the  end  of  it.” 

‘^What  are  gurapas?”  asked  Don  Quixote. 

“ Gurapas  are  galleys,”  ^ answered  the  galley  slave, 
who  was  a young  man  of  about  four- and- twenty,  and 
said  he  was  a native  of  Piedrahita. 

Don  Quixote  asked  the  same  question  of  the  second, 
who  made  no  reply,  so  downcast  and  melancholy  was 
he  ; but  the  first  answered  for  him,  and  said,  He,  sir, 
goes  as  a canary,  I mean  as  a musician  and  a singer.” 


^ Gurapas,  a word  from  the  “ Germania  ” or  rogue’s  dialect,  of  which 
there  are  many  specimens  in  this  chapter  and  scattered  through  Don  Quixote. 
Indeed,  Juan  Hidalgo’s  Vocabulario  of  the  Germania  tongue  is  absolutely 
necessary  to  any  one  reading  the  book  in  the  original. 


400 


DON  QUIXOTE, 


What ! ” said  Don  Quixote,  “ for  being  musicians 
and  singers  do  people  go  to  the  galleys  too?  ” 

“ Yes,  sir,”  answered  the  galley  slave,  ‘‘  for  there  is 
nothing  worse  than  singing  under  suffering.” 

On  the  contrary,  I have  heard  say,”  said  Don 
Quixote,  “ that  he  who  sings  scares  away  his  woes.”  ' 

“ Here  it  is  the  reverse,”  said  the  galley-slave  ; “ for 
he  who  sings  once  weeps  all  his  life.” 

‘‘  I do  not  understand  it,”  said  Don  Quixote ; but 
one  of  the  guards  said  to  him,  Sir,  to  sing  under  suf- 
fering means  with  the  non  sancta  fraternity  to  confess 
under  torture  ; they  put  this  sinner  to  the  torture,  and 
he  confessed  his  crime,  which  was  being  a cuatrero, 
that  is  a cattle-stealer,  and  on  his  confession  they 
sentenced  him  to  six  years  in  the  galleys,  besides 
two  hundred  lashes  that  he  has  already  had  on  the 
back  ; and  he  is  always  dejected  and  downcast  because 
the  other  thieves  that  were  left  behind  and  that  march 
here  ill-treat,  and  snub,  and  jeer,  and  despise  him  for 
confessing  and  not  having  spirit  enough  to  say  nay ; 
for,  say  they,  ‘ nay  ’ has  no  more  letters  in  it  than 
‘ yea,’  ^ and  a culprit  is  well  off  when  life  or  death  with 
him  depends  on  his  own  tongue  and  not  on  that  of 
witnesses  or  evidence ; and  to  my  thinking  they  are 
not  very  far  out.” 

‘‘  And  I think  so  too,”  answered  Don  Quixote  ; then 
passing  on  to  the  third  he  asked  him  what  he  had 
asked  the  others,  and  the  man  answered  very  readily 


* Prov.  32. 


2 Prov.  126. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 


401 


and  unconcernedly,  “ I am  going  for  five  years  to  their 
ladyships  the  gurapas  for  the  want  of  ten  ducats.” 

‘‘  I will  give  twenty  with  pleasure  to  get  you  out  of 
that  trouble,”  said  Don  Quixote. 

“That,”  said  the  galley  slave,  “is  like  a man  having 
money  at  sea  when  he  is  dying  of  hunger  and  has  no 
way  of  buying  what  he  wants  ; I say  so  because  if 
at  the  right  time  I had  had  those  twenty  ducats  that 
your  worship  now  offers  me,  I would  have  greased  the 
notary’s  pen  and  freshened  up  the  attorney’s  wit  with 
them,  so  that  to-day  I should  be  in  the  middle  of  the 
plaza  of  the  Zocodover  at  Toledo,  and  not  on  this  road 
coupled  like  a greyhound.  But  God  is  great ; patience 
— there,  that’s  enough  of  it.” 

Don  Quixote  passed  on  to  the  fourth,  a man  of 
venerable  aspect  with  a white  beard  falling  below  his 
breast,  who  on  hearing  himself  asked  the  reason  of  his 
being  there  began  to  weep  without  answering  a word, 
but  the  fifth  acted  as  his  tongue  and  said,  “ This 
worthy  man  is  going  to  the  galleys  for  four  years,  after 
having  gone  the  rounds  in  the  robe  of  ceremony  and 
on  horseback.”  * 

“ That  means,”  said  Sancho  Panza,  “ as  I take  it,  to 
have  been  exposed  to  shame  in  public.” 

“Just  so,”  replied  the  galley-slave,  “and  the  offence 
for  which  they  gave  him  that  punishment  was  having 
been  an  ear-broker,  nay  body-broker ; I mean,  in 
short,  that  this  gentleman  goes  as  a pimp,  and  for 

^ Malefactors  were  commonly  whipped  in  this  way,  and  the  ceremony  is 
frequently  alluded  to  in  the  Picaresque  novels. 


402 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


having  besides  a certain  touch  of  the  sorcerer  about 
him.” 

“ If  that  touch  had  not  been  thrown  in,”  said  Don 
Quixote,  “ he  would  not  deserve,  for  mere  pimping,  to 
row  in  the  galleys,  but  rather  to  command  and  be 
admiral  of  them  ; for  the  office  of  pimp  is  no  ordinary 
one,  being  the  office  of  persons  of  discretion,  one  very 
necessary  in  a well-ordered  state,  and  only  to  be  exer- 
cised by  persons  of  good  birth ; nay,  there  ought  to  be 
an  inspector  and  overseer  of  them,  as  in  other  offices, 
and  a fixed  and  recognized  number,  as  with  the  brokers 
on  change ; in  this  way  many  of  the  evils  would  be 
avoided  which  are  caused  by  this  office  and  calling 
being  in  the  hands  of  stupid  and  ignorant  people,  such 
as  women  more  or  less  silly,  and  pages  and  jesters  of 
little  standing  and  experience,  who  on  the  most  urgent 
occasions,  and  when  ingenuity  of  contrivance  is  needed, 
let  the  crumbs  freeze  on  the  way  to  their  mouths,'  and 
know  not  which  is  their  right  hand.  1 would  go 
further,  and  give  reasons  to  show  that  it  is  advisable 
to  choose  those  who  are  to  hold  so  necessary  an  office 
in  the  state,  but  this  is  not  the  fit  place  for  it ; some 
day  I will  expound  the  matter  to  some  one  able  to  see 
to  and  rectify  it ; all  I say  now  is,  that  the  additional 
fact  of  his  being  a sorcerer  has  removed  the  sorrow  it 
gave  me  to  see  these  white  hairs  and  this  venerable 
countenance  in  so  painful  a position  on  account  of  his 
being  a pimp ; though  I know  well  there  are  no 


1 Prov.  1 86. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 


403 


sorceries  in  the  world  that  can  move  or  compel  the 
will  as  some  simple  folk  fancy,  for  our  will  is  free,  nor 
is  there  herb  or  charm  that  can  force  it.  All  that 
certain  silly  women  and  quacks  do  is  to  turn  men  mad 
with  potions  and  poisons,  pretending  that  they  have 
power  to  cause  love,  for,  as  I say,  it  is  an  impossibility 
to  compel  the  will.” 

‘‘  It  is  true,”  said  the  good  old  man,  “ and  indeed, 
sir,  as  far  as  the  charge  of  sorcery  goes  I was  not 
guilty ; as  to  that  of  being  a pimp  I cannot  deny  it ; 
but  I never  thought  I was  doing  any  harm  by  it,  for 
my  only  object  was  that  all  the  world  should  enjoy 
itself  and  live  in  peace  and  quiet,  without  quarrels  or 
troubles ; but  my  good  intentions  were  unavailing  to 
save  me  from  going  where  I never  expect  to  come 
back  from,  with  this  weight  of  years  upon  me  and  a 
urinary  ailment  that  never  gives  me  a moment’s  ease  ; ” 
and  again  he  fell  to  weeping  as  before,  and  such  com- 
passion did  Sancho  feel  for  him  that  he  took  out  a real 
of  four  from  his  bosom  and  gave  it  to  him  in  alms. 

Don  Quixote  went  on  and  asked  another  what  his 
crime  was,  and  the  man  answered  with  no  less  but 
rather  much  more  sprightliness  than  the  last  one,  “ I 
am  here  because  I carried  the  joke  too  far  with  a 
couple  of  cousins  of  mine,  and  with  a couple  of  other 
cousins  who  were  none  of  mine ; in  short,  I carried 
the  joke  so  far  with  them  all  that  it  ended  in  such  a 
complicated  increase  of  kindred  that  no  accountant 
could  make  it  clear : it  was  all  proved  against  me,  I 
got  no  favor,  I had  no  money,  I was  near  having  my 


404 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


neck  stretched,  they  sentenced  me  to  the  galleys  for 
six  years,  I accepted  my  fate,  it  is  the  punishment  of 
my  fault ; I am  a young  man ; let  life  only  last,  and 
with  that  all  will  come  right.  If  you,  sir,  have  any- 
thing wherewith  to  help  the  poor,  God  will  repay  it  to 
you  in  heaven,  and  we  on  earth  will  take  care  in  our 
petitions  to  him  to  pray  for  the  life  and  health  of  your 
worship,  that  they  may  be  as  long  and  as  good  as 
your  amiable  appearance  deserves.”  This  one  was  in 
the  dress  of  a student,  and  one  of  the  guards  said  he 
was  a great  talker  and  a very  elegant  Latin  scholar. 

Behind  all  these  there  came  a man  of  thirty,  a very 
personable  fellow,  except  that  when  he  looked  his 
eyes  turned  in  a little  one  towards  the  other.  He  was 
bound  differently  from  the  rest,  for  he  had  to  his  leg  a 
chain  so  long  that  it  was  wound  all  round  his  body, 
and  two  rings  on  his  neck,  one  attached  to  the  chain, 
the  other  to  what  they  call  a “ keep-friend  ” or  ‘‘  friend’s 
foot,”  from  which  hung  two  irons  reaching  to  his  waist 
with  two  manacles  fixed  to  them  in  which  his  hands 
were  secured  by  a big  padlock,  so  that  he  could 
neither  raise  his  hands  to  his  mouth  nor  lower  his 
head  to  his  hands.  Don  Quixote  asked  why  this  man 
carried  so  many  more  chains  than  the  others.  The 
guard  replied  that  it  was  because  he  alone  had  com- 
mitted more  crimes  than  all  the  rest  put  together,  and 
was  so  daring  and  such  a villain,  that  though  they 
marched  him  in  that  fashion  they  did  not  feel  sure  of 
him,  but  were  in  dread  of  his  making  his  escape. 

“ What  crimes  can  he  have  committed,”  said  Don 


CHAPTER  XXIL 


405 


Quixote,  if  they  have  not  deserved  a heavier  punish- 
ment than  being  sent  to  the  galleys?  ” 

“ He  goes  for  ten  years,”  replied  the  guard,  ‘‘  which 
is  the  same  thing  as  civil  death,  and  all  that  need  be 
said  is  that  this  good  fellow  is  the  famous  Gines  de 
Pasamonte,  otherwise  called  Ginesillo  de  Parapilla.” 

“ Gently,  sehor  commissary,”  said  the  galley  slave 
at  this,  “ let  us  have  no  fixing  of  names  or  surnames ; 
my  name  is  Gines,  not  Ginesillo,  and  my  family  name 
is  Pasamonte,  not  Parapilla  as  you  say ; let  each  one 
mind  his  own  business,  and  he  will  be  doing  enough.” 

Speak  with  less  impertinence,  master  thief  of 
extra  measure,”  replied  the  commissary,  “ if  you  don’t 
want  me  to  make  you  hold  your  tongue  in  spite  of 
your  teeth.” 

It  is  easy  to  see,”  returned  the  galley  slave,  “ that 
man  goes  as  God  pleases,'  but  some  one  shall  know 
some  day  whether  I am  called  Ginesillo  de  Parapilla 
or  not.” 

Don’t  they  call  you  so,  you  liar?”  said  the  guard. 

They  do,”  returned  Gines,  “but  I will  make  them 
give  over  calling  me  so  with  a vengeance ; where,  I 
won’t  say.  If  you,  sir,  have  any  thing  to  give  us,  give 
it  to  us  at  once,  and  God  speed  you,  for  you  are  be- 
coming tiresome  with  all  this  inquisitiveness  about  the 
lives  of  others ; if  you  want  to  know  about  mine,  let 
me  tell  you  I am  Gines  de  Pasamonte,  whose  life  is 
written  by  these  fingers.” 


I Prov.  79. 


4o6 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


‘‘  He  says  true,”  said  the  commissary,  ‘‘  for  he  has 
himself  written  his  story  as  grand  as  you  please,  and 
has  left  the  book  in  the  prison  in  pawn  for  two  hun- 
dred reals.” 

“ And  I mean  to  take  it  out  of  pawn,”  said  Gines, 
“ though  it  were  in  for  two  hundred  ducats.” 

“ Is  it  so  good?”  said  Don  Quixote. 

“ So  good  is  it,”  replied  Gines,  “ that  a fig  for  ‘ Laza- 
rillo  de  Tormes,’  and  all  of  that  kind  that  have  been 
written,'  or  shall  be  written,  compared  with  it;  all  I 
will  say  about  it  is  that  it  deals  with  facts,  and  facts  so 
neat  and  diverting  that  no  lies  could  match  them.” 

“And  how  is  the  book  entitled?”  asked  Don  Qui- 
xote. 

“ The  ^ Life  of  Gines  de  Pasamonte,’  ” replied  the 
subject  of  it. 

“ And  is  it  finished?”  asked  Don  Quixote. 

“ How  can  it  be  finished,”  said  the  other,  “ when 
my  life  is  not  yet  finished  ? All  that  is  written  is  from 
my  birth  down  to  the  point  when  they  sent  me  to  the 
galleys  this  last  time.” 

“Then  you  have  been  there  before?”  said  Don 
Quixote. 

“ In  the  service  of  God  and  the  king  I have  been 
there  for  four  years  before  now,  and  I know  by  this 
time  what  the  biscuit  and  courbash  are  like,”  replied 


I At  the  time  Cervantes  was  writing  the  only  book  of  the  kind  (i.  e.  pica- 
resque fiction)  that  had  appeared  besides  Lazarillo  de  Tormes  was  Aleman’s 
Guzma7i  de  Al/arache,  at  which,  it  has  been  suggested,  this  passage  is 
aimed. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 


407 


Gines ; and  it  is  no  great  grievance  to  me  to  go 
back  to  them,  for  there  I shall  have  time  to  finish  my 
book ; I have  still  many  things  left  to  say,  and  in  the 
galleys  of  Spain  there  is  more  than  enough  leisure ; 
though  I do  not  want  much  for  what  I have  to  write, 
for  I have  it  by  heart.” 

You  seem  a clever  fellow,”  said  Don  Quixote. 

“And  an  unfortunate  one,”  replied  Gines,  “for  mis- 
fortune always  persecutes  wit.” 

“ It  persecutes  rogues,”  said  the  commissary. 

“ I told  you  already  to  go  gently,  master  commis- 
sary,” said  Pasamonte  ; “ their  lordships  yonder  never 
gave  you  that  staff  to  ill-treat  us  wretches  here,  but  to 
conduct  and  take  us  where  his  majesty  orders  you ; 
if  not,  by  the  life  of — never  mind  — j it  may  be  that 
some  day  the  stains  made  in  the  inn  will  come  out  in 
the  scouring ; ' let  every  one  hold  his  tongue  and  be- 
have well  and  speak  better ; and  now  let  us  march  on, 
for  we  have  had  quite  enough  of  this  entertainment.” 

The  commissary  lifted  his  staff  to  strike  Pasamonte 
in  return  for  his  threats,  but  Don  Quixote  came  be- 
tween them,  and  begged  him  not  to  ill-use  him,  as  it 
was  not  too  much  to  allow  one  who  had  his  hands 
tied  to  have  his  tongue  a trifle  free ; and  turning  to 
the  whole  chain  of  them  he  said,  “ From  all  you  have 

^ Prov.  53.  Clemencin  thinks  there  is  an  allusion  here  to  Aleman’s  Guz- 
man de  Alfarache,  the  hero  of  which  is  sent  to  the  galleys  like  Gines  de 
Pasamonte,  and  at  an  inn  on  the  road  ingratiates  himself  with  the  commissary 
by  presenting  him  with  a pig  he  had  stolen.  But  Clemencin  forgot  that  this 
incident  occurs  in  the  Second  Part  of  Guzman,  which  was  not  published  till 
after  Don  Quixote. 


4o8 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


told  me,  dear  brethren,  I make  out  clearly  that  though 
they  have  punished  you  for  your  faults,  the  punish- 
ments you  are  about  to  endure  do  not  give  you  much 
pleasure,  and  that  you  go  to  them  very  much  against 
the  grain  and  against  your  will,  and  that  perhaps  this 
one’s  want  of  courage  under  torture,  that  one’s  want 
of  money,  the  other’s  want  of  advocacy,  and  lastly 
the  perverted  judgment  of  the  judge  may  have  been  the 
cause  of  your  ruin  and  of  your  failure  to  obtain  the  jus- 
tice you  had  on  your  side.  All  which  presents  itself 
now  to  my  mind,  urging,  persuading,  and  even  compel- 
ling me  to  demonstrate  in  your  case  the  purpose  for 
which  Heaven  sent  me  into  the  world  and  caused  me 
to  make  profession  of  the  order  of  chivalry  to  which  I 
belong,  and  the  vow  I took  therein  to  give  aid  to  those 
in  need  and  under  the  oppression  of  the  strong.  But 
as  I know  that  it  is  a mark  of  prudence  not  to  do  by 
foul  means  what  may  be  done  by  fair,  I will  ask  these 
gentlemen,  the  guards  and  commissary,  to  be  so  good 
as  to  release  you  and  let  you  go  in  peace,  as  there  will 
be  no  lack  of  others  to  serve  the  king  under  more 
favorable  circumstances ; for  it  seems  to  me  a hard 
case  to  make  slaves  of  those  whom  God  and  nature 
have  made  free.  Moreover,  sirs  of  the  guard,”  added 
Don  Quixote,  “ these  poor  fellows  have  done  nothing 
to  you  ; let  each  answer  for  his  own  sins  yonder ; there 
is  a God  in  heaven  who  will  not  forget  to  punish  the 
wicked  or  reward  the  good ; and  it  is  not  fitting  that 
honest  men  should  be  the  instruments  of  punishment 
to  others,  they  being  therein  no  way  concerned.  This 


CHAPTER  XXII. 


409 


request  I make  thus  gently  and  quietly,  that,  if  you 
comply  with  it,  I may  have  reason  for  thanking  you ; 
and,  if  you  will  not  voluntarily,  this  lance  and  sword 
together  with  the  might  of  my  arm  shall  compel  you 
to  comply  with  it  by  force.” 

Nice  nonsense  ! ” said  the  commissary ; a fine 
piece  of  pleasantry  he  has  come  out  with  at  last ! He 
wants  us  to  let  the  king’s  prisoners  go,  as  if  we  had 
any  authority  to  release  them,  or  he  to  order  us  to  do 
so  ! Go  your  way,  sir,  and  good  luck  to  you  \ put 
that  basin  straight  that  you’ve  got  on  your  head,  and 
don’t  go  looking  for  three  feet  on  a cat.”  * 

’Tis  you  that  are  the  cat,  rat,  and  rascal,”  replied 
Don  Quixote,  and  acting  on  the  word  he  fell  upon  him 
so  suddenly  that  without  giving  him  time  to  defend 
himself  he  brought  him  to  the  ground  sorely  wounded 
with  a lance- thrust ; and  lucky  it  was  for  him  that  it 
was  the  one  that  had  the  musket.  The  other  guards 
stood  thunderstruck  and  amazed  at  this  unexpected 
event,  but  recovering  presence  of  mind,  those  on  horse- 
back ^ seized  their  swords,  and  those  on  foot  their 
javelins,  and  attacked  Don  Quixote,  who  was  waiting 
for  them  with  great  calmness ; and  no  doubt  it  would 
have  gone  badly  with  him  if  the  galley  slaves  seeing 
the  chance  before  them  of  liberating  themselves  had 
not  effected  it  by  contriving  to  break  the  chain  on 


* Prov.  103.  Of  course  it  should  be  “ five;  ” and  the  proverb  is  so  given 
by  Blasco  de  Garay. 

2 At  the  beginning  of  the  chapter  we  were  told  there  were  only  two  on 
horseback,  and  that  both  of  them  had  muskets. 


410 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


which  they  were  strung.  Such  was  the  confusion,  that 
the  guards,  now  rushing  at  the  galley  slaves  who  were 
breaking  loose,  now  to  attack  Don  Quixote  who  was 
waiting  for  them,  did  nothing  at  all  that  was  of  any 
use.  Sancho,  on  his  part,  gave  a helping  hand  to 
release  Gines  de  Pasamonte,  who  was  the  first  to  leap 
forth  upon  the  plain  free  and  unfettered,  and  who, 
attacking  the  prostrate  commissary,  took  from  him  his 
sword  and  the  musket,  with  which,  aiming  at  one  and 
levelling  at  another,  he,  without  ever  discharging  it, 
drove  every  one  of  the  guards  off  the  field,  for  they 
took  to  flight,  as  well  to  escape  Pasamonte’s  musket, 
as  the  showers  of  stones  the  now  released  galley  slaves 
were  raining  upon  them.  Sancho  was  greatly  grieved 
at  the  affair,  because  he  anticipated  that  those  who 
had  fled  would  report  the  matter  to  the  Holy  Brother- 
hood, who  at  the  summons  of  the  alarm-bell  would  at 
once  sally  forth  in  quest  of  the  offenders ; and  he  said 
so  to  his  master,  and  entreated  him  to  leave  the  place 
at  once,  and  go  into  hiding  in  the  sierra  that  was  close 
by. 

That  is  all  very  well,”  said  Don  Quixote,  but  I 
know  what  must  be  done  now ; ” and  calling  together 
all  the  galley  slaves,  who  were  now  running  riot,  and 
had  stripped  the  commissary  to  the  skin,  he  collected 
them  round  him  to  hear  what  he  had  to  say,  and  ad- 
dressed them  as  follows  : ‘‘  To  be  grateful  for  benefits 
received  is  the  part  of  persons  of  good  birth,  and  one 
of  the  sins  most  offensive  to  God  is  ingratitude  ; I say 
so  because,  sirs,  ye  have  already  seen  by  manifest 


CHAPTER  XXII. 


4II 

proof  the  benefit  ye  have  received  of  me ; in  return 
for  which  I desire,  and  it  is  my  good  pleasure  that, 
laden  with  that  chain  which  I have  taken  off  your 
necks,  ye  at  once  set  out  and  proceed  to  the  city  of 
El  Toboso,  and  there  present  yourselves  before  the 
lady  Dulcinea  del  Toboso,  and  say  to  her  that  her 
knight,  he  of  the  Rueful  Countenance,  sends  to  com- 
mend himself  to  her ; and  that  ye  recount  to  her  in 
full  detail  all  the  particulars  of  this  notable  adventure, 
up  to  the  recovery  of  your  longed-for  liberty ; and  this 
done  ye  may  go  where  ye  will,  and  good  fortune  at- 
tend you.” 

Gines  de  Pasamonte  made  answer  for  all,  saying. 
That  which  you,  sir,  our  deliverer,  demand  of  us,  is 
of  all  impossibilities  the  most  impossible  to  comply 
with,  because  we  cannot  go  together  along  the  roads, 
but  only  singly  and  separate,  and  each  one  his  own 
way,  endeavoring  to  hide  ourselves  in  the  bowels  of 
the  earth  to  escape  the  Holy  Brotherhood,  which,  no 
doubt,  will  come  out  in  search  of  us.  What  your 
worship  may  do,  and  fairly  do,  is  to  change  this  ser- 
vice and  tribute  as  regards  the  lady  Dulcinea  del 
Toboso  for  a certain  quantity  of  ave-marias  and  cre- 
dos which  we  will  say  for  your  worship’s  intention,* 
and  this  is  a condition  that  can  be  complied  with  by 
night  as  well  as  by  day,  running  or  resting,  in  peace  or 
in  war , but  to  imagine  that  we  are  going  now  to  return 
to  the  flesh-pots  of  Egypt,  I mean  to  take  up  our 

* To  pray  for  “ the  intention  ” of  another  is  a proof  of  devotional  sym- 
pathy. 


412 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


chain  and  set  out  for  El  Toboso,  is  to  imagine  that  it 
is  now  night,  though  it  is  not  yet  ten  in  the  morning, 
and  to  ask  this  of  us  is  like  asking  pears  of  the  elm 
tree.”  ^ 

“Then  by  all  that’s  good,”  said  Don  Quixote  (now 
stirred  to  wrath),  “ Don  son  of  a bitch,  Don  Ginesillo 
de  Paropillo,  or  whatever  your  name  is,  you  will  have 
to  go  yourself  alone,  with  your  tail  between  your  legs 
and  the  whole  chain  on  your  back.” 

Pasamonte,  who  was  any  thing  but  meek  (being  by 
this  time  thoroughly  convinced  that  Don  Quixote  was 
not  quite  right  in  his  head  as  he  had  committed  such 
a vagary  as  trying  to  set  them  free),  finding  himself 
abused  in  this  fashion,  gave  the  wink  to  his  compan- 
ions, and  falling  back  they  began  to  shower  stones  on 
Don  Quixote  at  such  a rate  that  he  was  quite  unable 
to  protect  himself  with  his  buckler,  and  poor  Rocin- 
ante  no  more  heeded  the  spur  than  if  he  had  been 
made  of  brass.  Sancho  planted  himself  behind  his 
ass,  and  with  him  sheltered  himself  from  the  hailstorm 
that  poured  on  both  of  them.  Don  Quixote  was  un- 
able to  shield  himself  so  well  but  that  more  pebbles 
than  I could  count  struck  him  full  on  the  body  with 
such  force  that  they  brought  him  to  the  ground ; and 
the  instant  he  fell  the  student  pounced  upon  him, 
snatched  the  basin  from  his  head,  and  with  it  struck 
three  or  four  blows  on  his  shoulders,  and  as  many 
more  on  the  ground  knocking  it  almost  to  pieces. 


* Prov.  i8o. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 


413 


They  then  stripped  him  of  a jacket  that  he  wore  over 
his  armor,  and  they  would  have  stripped  off  his  stock- 
ings if  his  greaves  had  not  prevented  them.  From 
Sancho  they  took  his  coat,  leaving  him  in  his  shirt- 
sleeves ; and  dividing  among  themselves  the  remaining 
spoils  of  the  battle,  they  went  each  one  his  own  way, 
more  solicitous  about  keeping  clear  of  the  Holy 
Brotherhood  they  dreaded,  than  about  burdening 
themselves  with  the  chain,  or  going  to  present  them- 
selves before  the  lady  Dulcinea  del  Toboso.  The  ass 
and  Rocinante,  Sancho  and  Don  Quixote,  were  all  that 
were  left  upon  the  spot ; the  ass  with  drooping  head, 
serious,  shaking  his  ears  from  time  to  time  as  if  he 
thought  the  storm  of  stones  that  assailed  them  was  not 
yet  over ; Rocinante  stretched  beside  his  master,  for 
he  too  had  been  brought  to  the  ground  by  a stone  ; 
Sancho  stripped,  and  trembling  with  fear  of  the  Holy 
Brotherhood ; and  Don  Quixote  fuming  to  find  him- 
self so  served  by  the  very  persons  for  whom  he  had 
done  so  much. 


414 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

OF  WHAT  BEFELL  DON  QUIXOTE  IN  THE  SIERRA  MO- 
RENA,  WHICH  WAS  ONE  OF  THE  RAREST  ADVENTURES 
RELATED  IN  THIS  VERACIOUS  HISTORY. 

Seeing  himself  served  in  this  way,  Don  Quixote  said 
to  his  squire,  “ I have  always  heard  it  said,  Sancho, 
that  to  do  good  to  boors  is  to  throw  water  into  the 
sea.'  If  I had  believed  thy  words,  I should  have 
avoided  this  trouble ; but  it  is  done  now,  it  is  only  to 
have  patience  and  take  warning  from  this  for  the 
future.” 

Your  worship  will  take  warning  as  much  as  I am 
a Turk,”  returned  Sancho  ; “ but,  as  you  say  this  mis- 
chief might  have  been  avoided  if  you  had  believed 
me,  believe  me  now,  and  a still  greater  one  will  be 
avoided  ; for  I tell  you  chivalry  is  of  no  account  with 
the  Holy  Brotherhood,  and  they  don’t  care  two  mara- 
vedis  for  all  the  knights- errant  in  the  world ; and  I 
can  tell  you  I fancy  I hear  their  arrows  whistling  past 
my  ears  this  minute.” 

“ Thou  art  a coward  by  nature,  Sancho,”  said  Don 
Quixote,  “ but  lest  thou  shouldst  say  I am  obstinate. 


* Prov.  246. 


CHAPTER  XXII/. 


415 


and  that  I never  do  as  thou  dost  advise,  this  once  I 
will  take  thy  advice,  and  withdraw  out  of  reach  of  that 
fury  thou  so  dreadest ; but  it  must  be  on  one  condi- 
tion, that  never,  in  life  or  in  death,  thou  art  to  say  to 
any  one  that  I retired  or  withdrew  from  this  danger 
out  of  fear,  but  only  in  compliance  with  thy  entrea- 
ties ; for  if  thou  sayest  otherwise  thou  wilt  lie  therein, 
and  from  this  time  to  that,  and  from  that  to  this,  I 
give  thee  the  lie,  and  say  thou  best  and  wilt  lie  every 
time  thou  thinkest  or  sayest  it ; and  answer  me  not 
again ; for  at  the  mere  thought  that  I am  withdrawing 
or  retiring  from  any  danger,  above  all  from  this,  which 
does  seem  to  carry  some  little  shadow  of  fear  with  it, 
I am  ready  to  take  my  stand  here  and  await  alone,  not 
only  that  Holy  Brotherhood  you  talk  of  and  dread, 
but  the  brothers  of  the  twelve  tribes  of  Israel,  and 
the  Seven  Maccabees,  and  Castor  and  Pollux,  and  all 
the  brothers  and  brotherhoods  in  the  world.” 

“ Sehor,”  replied  Sancho,  to  retire  is  not  to  flee, 
and  there  is  no  wisdom  in  waiting  when  danger  out- 
weighs hope,  and  it  is  the  part  of  wise  men  to  pre- 
serve themselves  to-day  for  to-morrow,  and  not  risk 
all  in  one  day ; and  let  me  tell  you,  though  I am  a 
clown  and  a boor,  I have  got  some  notion  of  what 
they  call  safe  conduct : so  repent  not  of  having  taken 
my  advice,  but  mount  Rocinante  if  you  can,  and  if 
not  I will  help  you  ; and  follow  me,  for  my  mother- 
wit  tells  me  we  have  more  need  of  legs  than  hands 
just  now.” 

Don  Quixote  mounted  without  replying,  and,  San- 


4i6 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


cho  leading  the  way  on  his  ass,  they  entered  the  side 
of  the  Sierra  Morena,  which  was  close  by,  as  it  was 
Sancho’s  design  to  cross  it  entirely  and  come  out  again 
at  El  Viso  or  Almoddvar  del  Campo,^  and  hide  for 
some  days  among  its  crags  so  as  to  escape  the  search 
of  the  Brotherhood  should  they  come  to  look  for 
them.  He  was  encouraged  in  this  by  perceiving  that 
the  stock  of  provisions  carried  by  the  ass  had  come 
safe  out  of  the  fray  with  the  galley  slaves,  a circum- 
stance that  he  regarded  as  a miracle,  seeing  how  they 
pillaged  and  ransacked. 

That  night  they  reached  the  very  heart  of  the  Sierra 
Morena,  where  it  seemed  prudent  to  Sancho  to  pass 
the  night  and  even  some  days,  at  least  as  many  as  the 
stores  he  carried  might  last,  and  so  they  encamped 
between  two  rocks  and  among  some  cork  trees ; but 
fatal  destiny,  which,  according  to  the  opinion  of  those 
who  have  not  the  light  of  the  true  faith,  directs, 
arranges,  and  settles  every  thing  in  its  own  way,  so 
ordered  it  that  Gines  de  Pasamonte,  the  famous  knave 
and  thief  who  by  the  virtue  and  madness  of  Don 
Quixote  had  been  released  from  the  chain,  driven  by 
fear  of  the  Holy  Brotherhood,  which  he  had  good 
reason  to  dread,  resolved  to  take  hiding  in  the  moun- 


* These  are  towns  of  La  Mancha,  though  from  the  wording  of  the  passage 
it  might  be  supposed  that  they  lay  on  the  other,  the  Andalusian,  side  of  the 
Sierra  Morena.  It  is  significant  that  Cervantes  always  speaks  of  “ entering  ” 
and  “ coming  out  of”  the  Sierra  Morena,  never  of  ascending  or  descending 
it;  and,  in  fact,  on  the  north  side  the  Sierra  rises  but  little  above  the  level 
of  the  great  Castilian  plateau,  and  the  road  enters  the  gorge  of  Despena- 
perros,  and  reaches  the  Andalusian  slope  with  comparatively  little  ascent. 


CHAPTER  XX  III. 


417 


tains ; and  his  fate  and  fear  led  him  to  the  same  spot 
to  which  Don  Quixote  and  Sancho  Panza  had  been 
led  by  theirs,  just  in  time  to  recognize  them  and  leave 
them  to  fall  asleep  : and  as  the  wicked  are  always 
ungrateful,  and  necessity  leads  to  wrong-doing,  and 
immediate  advantage  overcomes  all  considerations  of 
the  future,  Gines,  who  was  neither  grateful  nor  well- 
principled,  made  up  his  mind  to  steal  Sancho  Panza’s 
ass,  not  troubling  himself  about  Rocinante,  as  being 
a prize  that  was  no  good  either  to  pledge  or  sell. 
While  Sancho  slept  he  stole  his  ass,  and  before  day 
dawned  he  was  far  out  of  reach. 

Aurora  made  her  appearance  bringing  gladness  to 
the  earth  but  sadness  to  Sancho  Panza,  for  he  found 
that  his  Dapple  ‘ was  missing,  and  seeing  himself 


* “ Dapple,”  as  I have  said  elsewhere,  is  not  a correct  translation  of 
rucio,  but  it  has  by  long  usage  acquired  a prescriptive  right  to  remain  the 
name  of  Sancho’s  ass.  Rucio  is  properly  a light  or  silvery  gray,  as  pardo 
is  a dark  or  iron  gray. 

This  passage  — beginning  at  “That  night  they  reached  the  very  heart,” 
etc.,  and  ending  with  “ returned  thanks  for  the  kindness  shown  him  by  Don 
Quixote  ” — does  not  appear  in  the  first  edition,  in  which  there  is  no  allusion 
to  the  loss  of  the  ass  until  the  middle  of  chapter  xxv.,  where,  without  any 
explanation  of  how  it  happened,  Cervantes  speaks  of  Dapple  as  having  been 
lost.  When  the  second  edition  was  in  the  press,  an  attempt  was  made  to 
remedy  the  oversight,  and  the  printer,  apparently proprio  tnotu,  supplied  this 
passage.  Chapter  xxx.,  where  Don  Quixote  laments  the  loss  of  his  “ good 
sword,”  suggested  Gines  de  Pasamonte  as  the  thief,  and  chapter  xxv.  the 
promise  of  the  ass-colts ; but  in  such  a bungling  manner  was  the  correction 
made  that  the  references  to  the  ass  as  if  still  in  Sancho’s  possession  (nine  or 
ten  in  number)  were  left  unaltered,  though  the  first  of  them  occurs  only  four 
or  five  lines  after  the  inserted  passage.  In  the  third  edition  of  1608  some  of 
these  inconsistencies  were  removed,  and  in  the  Second  Part  Cervantes  refers 
to  the  matter,  and  charges  the  printer  with  the  blunder.  What  he  originally 
intended,  no  doubt,  was  to  supplement  the  burlesque  of  the  penance  of  Amadis 


4i8 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


bereft  of  him  he  began  the  saddest  and  most  doleful 
lament  in  the  world,  so  loud  that  Don  Quixote  awoke 
at  his  exclamations  and  heard  him  saying,  ‘‘  O son  of 
my  bowels,  born  in  my  very  house,  my  children’s  play- 
thing, my  wife’s  joy,  the  envy  of  my  neighbors,  relief 
of  my  burdens,  and,  lastly,  half  supporter  of  myself, 
for  with  the  six-and-twenty  maravedis  thou  didst  earn 
me  daily  I met  half  my  charges.” 

Don  Quixote,  when  he  heard  the  lament  and  learned 
the  cause,  consoled  Sancho  with  the  best  arguments  he 
could,  entreating  him  to  be  patient,  and  promising  to 
give  him  a letter  of  exchange  ordering  three  out  of 
five  ass-colts  ‘ that  he  had  at  home  to  be  given  to  him. 
Sancho  took  comfort  at  this,  dried  his  tears,  suppressed 
his  sobs,  and  returned  thanks  for  the  kindness  shown 
him  by  Don  Quixote.  He  on  his  part  was  rejoiced  to 
the  heart  on  entering  the  mountains,  as  they  seemed 
to  him  to  be  just  the  place  for  the  adventures  he  was 
in  quest  of.  They  brought  back  to  his  memory  the 
marvellous  adventures  that  had  befallen  knights-errant 
in  like  solitudes  and  wilds,  and  he  went  along  reflecting 


by  a burlesque  of  Brunello’s  theft  of  Sacripante’s  horse  and  Marfisa’s  sword 
at  the  siege  of  Albracca,  as  described  by  Boiardo  and  Ariosto;  and  it  was  very 
possibly  an  after-thought  written  on  a loose  leaf  and  so  mislaid  or  lost 
iranszi?(.  The  inserted  passage  is  clearly  not  his,  as  it  is  completely  ignored 
by  him  in  chapters  iii,,  iv.,  and  xxvii.  of  Part  II.,  and  is  inconsistent  with 
the  account  of  the  affair  which  he  gives  there.  Hartzenbusch  removes  the 
passage  to  what  he  conceives  to  be  its  proper  place  in  chapter  xxv.,  but  it  is 
hardly  worth  while,  perhaps,  to  alter  the  familiar  arrangement  of  the  text. 
See  notes  on  chapters  xxx. ; and  iii.,  iv.,  and  xxvii..  Part  II. 

I Pollinos,  “ ass-colts,”  has  evidently  been  omitted  here  in  the  original, 
and  I have  therefore  supplied  it. 


CHAPTER  XX  in. 


419 


on  these  things,  so  absorbed  and  carried  away  by  them 
that  he  had  no  thought  for  any  thing  else.  Nor  had 
Sancho  any  other  care  (now  that  he  fancied  he  was  trav- 
elling in  a safe  quarter)  than  to  satisfy  his  appetite  with 
such  remains  as  were  left  of  the  clerical  spoils,  and  so 
he  marched  behind  his  master  laden  with  what  Dapple 
used  to  carry,  emptying  the  sack  and  packing  his 
paunch,  and  so  long  as  he  could  go  that  way,  he  would 
not  have  given  a farthing  to  meet  with  another  adven- 
ture. 

While  so  engaged  he  raised  his  eyes  and  saw  that 
his  master  had  halted,  and  was  trying  with  the  point 
of  his  pike  to  lift  some  bulky  object  that  lay  upon  the 
ground,  on  which  he  hastened  to  join  him  and  help 
him  if  it  were  needful,  and  reached  him  just  as  with 
the  point  of  the  pike  he  was  raising  a saddle-pad  with 
a valise  attached  to  it,  half  or  rather  wholly  rotten  and 
torn  ; but  so  heavy  were  they  that  Sancho  had  to  help 
to  take  them  up,  and  his  master  directed  him  to  see 
what  the  valise  contained.  Sancho  did  so  with  great 
alacrity,  and  though  the  valise  was  secured  by  a chain 
and  padlock,  from  its  torn  and  rotten  condition  he 
was  able  to  see  its  contents,  which  were  four  shirts  of 
fine  holland,  and  other  articles  of  linen  no  less  curious 
than  clean ; and  in  a handkerchief  he  found  a good 
lot  of  gold  crowns,  and  as  soon  as  he  saw  them  he 
exclaimed,  “ Blessed  be  all  Heaven  for  sending  us  an 
adventure  that  is  good  for  something  ! ” Searching 
further  he  found  a little  memorandum  book  richly 
bound  ; this  Don  Quixote  asked  of  him,  telling  him  to 


420 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


take  the  money  and  keep  it  for  himself.  Sancho  kissed 
his  hands  for  the  favor,  and  cleared  the  valise  of  its 
linen,  which  he  stowed  away  in  the  provision  sack. 
Considering  the  whole  matter,  Don  Quixote  observed, 
“ It  seems  to  me,  Sancho  — and  it  is  impossible  it  can 
be  otherwise  — that  some  strayed  traveller  must  have 
crossed  this  sierra  and  been  attacked  and  slain  by  foot- 
pads, who  brought  him  to  this  remote  spot  to  bury  him.” 

^^That  cannot  be,”  answered  Sancho, ‘‘ because  if 
they  had  been  robbers  they  would  not  have  left  this 
money.” 

“Thou  art  right,”  said  Don  Quixote,  “and  I cannot 
guess  or  explain  what  this  may  mean  ; but  stay ; let  us 
see  if  in  this  memorandum  book  there  is  any  thing 
written  by  which  we  may  be  able  to  trace  out  or  dis- 
cover what  we  want  to  know.” 

He  opened  it,  and  the  first  thing  he  found  in  it, 
written  roughly  but  in  a very  good  hand,  was  a sonnet, 
and  reading  it  aloud  that  Sancho  might  hear  it,  he 
found  that  it  ran  as  follows  : 

SONNET. 

Or  Love  is  lacking  in  intelligence, 

Or  to  the  height  of  cruelty  attains, 

Or  else  it  is  my  doom  to  suffer  pains 
Beyond  the  measure  clue  to  my  offence. 

But  if  Love  be  a God,  it  follows  thence 
That  he  knows  all,  and  certain  it  remains 
No  God  loves  cruelty  ; then  who  ordains 
This  penance  that  inthrals  while  it  torments  ? 


CHAPTER  XXHL 


421 


It  were  a falsehood,  Chloe,  thee  to  name ; 

Such  evil  with  such  goodness  cannot  live  ; 

And  against  Heaven  I dare  not  charge  the  blame, 

I only  know  it  is  my  fate  to  die. 

To  him  who  knows  not  whence  his  malady 
A miracle  alone  a cure  can  gived 

‘‘  There  is  nothing  to  be  learned  from  that  rhyme,” 
said  Sancho,  “ unless  by  that  clew  there’s  in  it,  one 
may  draw  out  the  ball  of  the  whole  matter.”  ^ 

“ What  clew  is  there  ? ” said  Don  Quixote. 

“ I thought  your  worship  spoke  of  a clew  in  it,”  said 
Sancho. 

“ I only  said  Chloe,”  replied  Don  Quixote  ; and 
that,  no  doubt,  is  the  name  of  the  lady  of  whom  the 
author  of  the  sonnet  complains ; and,  faith,  he  must 
be  a tolerable  poet,  or  I know  little  of  the  craft.” 

‘‘Then  your  worship  understands  rhyming  too?” 
said  Sancho. 

“ And  better  than  thou  thinkest,”  replied  Don  Qui- 
xote, “as  thou  shalt  see  when  thou  carriest  a letter 
written  in  verse  from  beginning  to  end  to  my  lady 
Dulcinea  del  Toboso,  for  I would  have  thee  know. 


^ This  sonnet  Cervantes  afterwards  inserted  in  his  comedy  of  the  Casa  de 
los  Zelos,  a proof  that  he  himself  had  as  good  an  opinion  of  it  as  Don  Qui- 
xote; though  Clemencin  says,  and  not  without  some  reason,  that  “ it  is  no 
great  things  ” — “ 7to  vale  gran  cosa.” 

2 A reference  to  the  proverb,  Par  el  kilo  se  saca  el  ovillo  — “ by  the 
thread  (or  clew)  the  ball  is  drawn  out.”  In  the  sonnet  the  lady’s  name  is 
Fili,  which  Sancho  mistakes  for  kilo  or  filo.  The  substitution  of  “ Chloe  ” by 
which  the  play  on  the  words  may  be  imitated  is  a happy  idea  of  Jervas’s 
which  has  been  generally  adopted  by  subsequent  translators  without  any 
acknowledgment. 


422 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


Sancho,  that  all  or  most  of  the  knights-errant  in  days 
of  yore  were  great  troubadours  and  great  musicians, 
for  both  of  these  accomplishments,  or  more  properly 
speaking  gifts,  are  the  peculiar  property  of  lovers- 
errant : true  it  is  that  the  verses  of  the  knights  of  old 
have  more  spirit  than  neatness  in  them.” 

Read  more,  your  worship,”  said  Sancho,  and 
you  will  find  something  that  will  enlighten  us.” 

Don  Quixote  turned  the  page  and  said,  ‘‘  This  is 
prose  and  seems  to  be  a letter.” 

correspondence  letter,  sehor?”  asked  Sancho. 

“ From  the  beginning  it  seems  to  be  a love-letter,” 
replied  Don  Quixote. 

Then  let  your  worship  read  it  aloud,”  said  Sancho, 
for  I am  very  fond  of  these  love  matters.” 

“ With  all  my  heart,”  said  Don  Quixote,  and  read- 
ing it  aloud  as  Sancho  had  requested  him,  he  found  it 
ran  thus  : 

Thy  false  promise  and  7ny  sure  7nisfortn7ie  carry  7ne  to 
a place  whence  the  7tews  of  77iy  death  will  reach  thy  ears 
before  the  words  of  77ty  C077tplai7it.  U7igrateftU  one,  thou 
hast  rejected  77ie  for  07ie  7nore  wealthy,  but  7iot  77iore 
worthy ; but  if  virtue  were  estee77ted  wealth  I should 
neither  e7ivy  the  fortti7ies  of  others  7ior  weep  for  7nis- 
fortu7ies  of  77ty  ow7i.  What  thy  beaicty  raised  up  thy 
deeds  have  laid  low  j by  it  I believed  thee  to  be  a7i  a7tgel, 
by  the77t  I k7iow  thou  art  a wo7)ia7i.  Peace  be  with  thee 
who  hast  se7it  war  to  77ie,  a7id  Heave7i  gra7it  that  the 
deceit  of  thy  husba7id  be  ever  hidden  fro7n  thee,  so  that 
thou  repe7it  7iot  of  what  thoti  hast  do7te,  and  I reap  7iot  a 
reve7ige  / would  7iot  have. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 


423 


When  he  had  finished  the  letter,  Don  Quixote  said, 
“ There  is  less  to  be  gathered  from  this  than  from  the 
verses,  except  that  he  who  wrote  it  is  some  rejected 
lover ; ” and  turning  over  nearly  all  the  pages  of  the 
book  he  found  more  verses  and  letters,  some  of  which 
he  could  read,  while  others  he  could  not : but  they 
were  all  made  up  of  complaints,  laments,  misgivings, 
desires  and  aversions,  favors  and  rejections,  some  rap- 
turous, some  doleful.  While  Don  Quixote  examined 
the  book,  Sancho  examined  the  valise,  not  leaving  a 
corner  in  the  whole  of  it  or  in  the  pad  that  he  did  not 
search,  peer  into,  and  explore,  or  seam  that  he  did 
not  rip,  or  tuft  of  wool  that  he  did  not  pick  to  pieces, 
lest  any  thing  should  escape  for  want  of  care  and 
pains ; so  keen  was  the  covetousness  excited  in  him 
by  the  discovery  of  the  crowns,  which  amounted  to 
near  a hundred ; and  though  he  found  no  more  booty, 
he  held  the  blanket  flights,  balsam  vomits,  stake  bene- 
dictions, carriers’  fisticuffs,  missing  alforjas,  stolen  coat, 
and  all  the  hunger,  thirst,  and  weariness  he  had  en- 
dured in  the  service  of  his  good  master,  cheap  at  the 
price  y as  he  considered  himself  more  than  fully  indem- 
nified for  all  by  the  payment  he  received  in  the  gift 
of  the  treasure-trove. 

The  Knight  of  the  Rueful  Countenance  was  still 
very  anxious  to  find  out  who  the  owner  of  the  valise 
could  be,  conjecturing  from  the  sonnet  and  letter, 
from  the  money  in  gold,  and  from  the  fineness  of  the 
shirts,  that  he  must  be  some  lover  of  distinction  whom 
the  scorn  and  cruelty  of  his  lady  had  driven  to  some 


424 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


desperate  course;  but  as  in  that  uninhabited  and 
rugged  spot  there  was  no  one  to  be  seen  of  whom  he 
could  inquire,  he  saw  nothing  else  for  it  but  to  push 
on  taking  whatever  road  Rocinante  chose  — which 
was  where  he  could  make  his  way  — firmly  persuaded 
that  among  these  wilds  he  could  not  fail  to  meet  some 
rare  adventure.  As  he  went  along,  then,  occupied 
with  these  thoughts,  he  perceived  on  the  summit  of  a 
height  that  rose  before  their  eyes  a man  who  went 
springing  from  rock  to  rock  and  from  tussock  to 
tussock  with  marvellous  agility.  As  well  as  he  could 
make  out  he  was  unclad,  with  a thick  black  beard, 
long  tangled  hair,  and  bare  legs  and  feet,  his  thighs 
were  covered  by  breeches  apparently  of  tawny  velvet 
but  so  ragged  that  they  showed  his  skin  in  several 
places.  He  was  bareheaded,  and  notwithstanding  the 
swiftness  with  which  he  passed  as  has  been  described, 
the  Knight  of  the  Rueful  Countenance  observed  and 
noted  all  these  trifles,  and  though  he  made  the  at- 
tempt, he  was  unable  to  follow  him,  for  it  was  not 
granted  to  the  feebleness  of  Rocinante  to  make  way 
over  such  rough  ground,  he  being,  moreover,  slow- 
paced and  sluggish  by  nature.  Don  Quixote  at  once 
came  to  the  conclusion  that  this  was  the  owner  of  the 
saddle-pad  and  of  the  valise,  and  made  up  his  mind 
to  go  in  search  of  him,  even  though  he  should  have  to 
wander  a year  in  those  mountains  before  he  found 
him,  and  so  he  directed  Sancho  to  take  a short  cut 
over  one  side  of  the  mountain,  while  he  himself  went 
by  the  other,  and  perhaps  by  this  means  they  might 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 


425 


light  upon  this  man  who  had  passed  so  quickly  out  of 
their  sight. 

I could  not  do  that,”  said  Sancho,  ‘‘  for  when  I 
separate  from  your  worship  fear  at  once  lays  hold  of 
me,  and  assails  me  with  all  sorts  of  panics  and  fancies ; 
and  let  what  I now  say  be  a notice  that  from  this  time 
forth  I am  not  going  to  stir  a finger’s  length  from  your 
presence.” 

‘‘  It  shall  be  so,”  said  he  of  the  Rueful  Countenance, 
and  I am  very  glad  that  thou  art  willing  to  rely  on 
my  courage,  which  will  never  fail  thee,  even  though 
the  soul  in  thy  body  fail  thee ; so  come  on  now  be- 
hind me  slowly  as  well  as  thou  canst,  and  make  lan- 
terns of  thine  eyes ; let  us  make  the  circuit  of  this 
ridge ; perhaps  we  shall  light  upon  this  man  that  we 
saw,  who  no  doubt  is  no  other  than  the  owner  of  what 
we  found.” 

To  which  Sancho  made  answer,  “ Far  better  would 
it  be  not  to  look  for  him,  for  if  we  find  him,  and  he 
happens  to  be  the  owner  of  the  money,  it  is  plain  I 
must  restore  it;  it  would  be  better,  therefore,  that 
without  taking  this  needless  trouble,  I should  keep 
possession  of  it  until  in  some  other  less  meddlesome 
and  officious  way  the  real  owner  may  be  discovered ; 
and  perhaps  that  will  be  when  I shall  have  spent  it, 
and  then  the  king  will  hold  me  harmless.” 

^‘Thou  art  wrong  there,  Sancho,”  said  Don  Qui- 
xote, ‘‘for  now  that  we  have  a suspicion  who  the 
owner  is,  and  have  him  almost  before  us,  we  are  bound 
to  seek  him  and  make  restitution ; and  if  we  do  not 


426 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


seek  him,  the  strong  suspicion  we  have  as  to  his  being 
the  owner  makes  us  as  guilty  as  if  he  were  so ; and 
so,  friend  Sancho,  let  not  our  search  for  him  give  thee 
any  uneasiness,  for  if  we  find  him  it  will  relieve  mine.” 

And  so  saying  he  gave  Rocinante  the  spur,  and 
Sancho  followed  him  on  foot  and  loaded,  thanks  to 
Ginesillo  de  Pasamonte,  and  after  having  partly  made 
the  circuit  of  the  mountain  they  found  lying  in  a 
ravine,  dead  and  half  devoured  by  dogs  and  pecked 
by  crows,  a mule  saddled  and  bridled,  all  which  still 
further  strengthened  their  suspicion  that  he  who  had 
fled  was  the  owner  of  the  mule  and  the  saddle-pad. 

x^s  they  stood  looking  at  it  they  heard  a whistle  like 
that  of  a shepherd  watching  his  flock,  and  suddenly 
on  their  left  there  appeared  a great  number  of  goats, 
and  behind  them  on  the  summit  of  the  mountain  the 
goatherd  in  charge  of  them,  a man  advanced  in  years. 
Don  Quixote  called  aloud  to  him  and  begged  him 
to  come  down  to  where  they  stood.  He  shouted  in 
return,  asking  what  had  brought  them  to  that  spot, 
seldom  or  never  trodden  except  by  the  feet  of  goats, 
or  of  the  wolves  and  other  wild  beasts  that  roamed 
around.  Sancho  in  return  bade  him  come  down,  and 
they  would  explain  all  to  him. 

The  goatherd  descended,  and  reaching  the  place 
where  Don  Quixote  stood,  he  said,  ‘‘  I will  wager  you 
are  looking  at  that  hack  mule  that  lies  dead  in  the 
hollow  there,  and,  faith,  it  has  been  lying  there  now 
these  six  months ; tell  me,  have  you  come  upon  its 
master  about  here?” 


CHAPTER  XX HI. 


427 


“ We  have  come  upon  nobody,”  answered  Don 
Quixote,  “ nor  on  any  thing  except  a saddle-pad  and 
a little  valise  that  we  found  not  far  from  this.” 

“ I found  it  too,”  said  the  goatherd,  “ but  I would 
not  lift  it  nor  go  near  it  for  fear  of  some  ill-luck  or 
being  charged  with  theft,  for  the  devil  is  crafty,  and 
things  rise  up  under  one’s  feet  to  make  one  stumble 
and  fall  without  knowing  why  or  wherefore.” 

“ That’s  exactly  what  I say,”  said  Sancho  ; ‘‘  I found 
it  too,  and  I would  not  go  within  a stone’s  throw  of 
it ; there  I left  it,  and  there  it  lies  just  as  it  was,  for  I 
don’t  want  a dog  with  a bell.”  ^ 

“ Tell  me,  good  man,”  said  Don  Quixote,  “ do  you 
know  who  is  the  owner  of  this  property?  ” 

“ All  I can  tell  you,”  said  the  goatherd,  “ is  that 
about  six  months  ago,  more  or  less,  there  arrived  at  a 
shepherd’s  hut  three  leagues,  perhaps,  away  from  this, 
a youth  of  well-bred  appearance  and  manners,  mounted 
on  that  same  mule  which  lies  dead  here,  and  with  the 
same  saddle-pad  and  valise  which  you  say  you  found 
and  did  not  touch.  He  asked  us  what  part  of  this 
sierra  was  the  most  rugged  and  retired ; we  told  him 
that  it  was  where  we  now  are  ; and  so  in  truth  it  is,  for 
if  you  push  on  half  a league  farther,  perhaps  you  will 
not  be  able  to  find  your  way  out ; and  I am  wonder- 
ing how  you  have  managed  to  come  here,  for  there  is 
no  road  or  path  that  leads  to  this  spot.  I say,  then, 
that  on  hearing  our  answer  the  youth  turned  about  and 

^ Prov.  182  — meaning,  I don’t  want  a thing  that  has  any  inconvenience 
attached  to  it. 


428 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


made  for  the  place  we  pointed  out  to  him,  leaving  us 
all  charmed  with  his  good  looks,  and  wondering  at  his 
question  and  the  haste  with  which  we  saw  him  depart 
in  the  direction  of  the  sierra ; and  after  that  we  saw 
him  no  more,  until  some  days  afterwards  he  crossed 
the  path  of  one  of  our  shepherds,  and  without  saying 
a word  to  him,  came  up  to  him  and  gave  him  several 
cuffs  and  kicks,  and  then  turned  to  the  ass  with  our 
provisions  and  took  all  the  bread  and  cheese  it  carried, 
and  having  done  this  made  off  back  again  into  the 
sierra  with  extraordinary  swiftness.  When  some  of  us 
goatherds  learned  this  we  went  in  search  of  him  for 
about  two  days  through  the  most  remote  portion  of 
this  sierra,  at  the  end  of  which  we  found  him  lodged 
in  the  hollow  of  a large  thick  cork  tree.  He  came 
out  to  meet  us  with  great  gentleness,  with  his  dress 
now  torn  and  his  face  so  disfigured  and  burned  by  the 
sun,  that  we  hardly  recognized  him  but  that  his  clothes, 
though  torn,  convinced  us,  from  the  recollection  we 
had  of  them,  that  he  was  the  person  we  were  looking 
for.  He  saluted  us  courteously,  and  in  a few  well- 
spoken  words  he  told  us  not  to  wonder  at  seeing  him 
going  about  in  this  guise,  as  it  was  binding  upon  him 
in  order  that  he  might  work  out  a penance  which  for 
his  many  sins  had  been  imposed  upon  him.  We  asked 
him  to  tell  us  who  he  was,  but  we  were  never  able  to 
find  out  from  him  ; we  begged  of  him  too,  when  he 
was  in  want  of  food,  which  he  could  not  do  without,  to 
tell  us  where  we  should  find  him,  as  we  would  bring  it 
to  him  with  all  good-will  and  readiness  ; or  if  this  were 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 


429 


not  to  his  taste,  at  least  to  come  and  ask  it  of  11s  and 
not  take  it  by  force  from  the  shepherds.  He  thanked 
us  for  the  offer,  begged  pardon  for  the  late  assault,  and 
promised  for  the  future  to  ask  it  in  God’s  name  with- 
out offering  violence  to  anybody.  As  for  fixed  abode, 
he  said  he  had  no  other  than  that  which  chance 
offered  wherever  night  might  overtake  him  j and  his 
words  ended  in  an  outburst  of  weeping  so  bitter  that 
we  who  listened  to  him  must  have  been  very  stones 
had  we  not  joined  him  in  it,  comparing  what  we  saw 
of  him  the  first  time  with  what  we  saw  now ; for,  as  I 
said,  he  was  a graceful  and  gracious  youth,  and  in  his 
courteous  and  polished  language  showed  himself  to  be 
of  good  birth  and  courtly  breeding,  and  rustics  as  we 
were  that  listened  to  him,  even  to  our  rusticity  his 
gentle  bearing  sufficed  to  make  it  plain.  But  in  the 
midst  of  his  conversation  he  stopped  and  became 
silent,  keeping  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  ground  for  some 
time,  during  which  we  stood  still  waiting  anxiously  to 
see  what  would  come  of  this  abstraction ; and  with  no 
little  pity,  for  from  his  behavior,  now  staring  at  the 
ground  with  fixed  gaze  and  eyes  wide  open  without 
moving  an  eyelid,  again  closing  them,  compressing  his 
lips  and  raising  his  eyebrows,  we  could  perceive  plainly 
that  a fit  of  madness  of  some  kind  had  come  upon 
him  j and  before  long  he  showed  that  what  we  ima- 
gined was  the  truth,  for  he  arose  in  a fury  from  the 
ground  where  he  had  thrown  himself,  and  attacked 
the  first  he  found  near  him  with  such  rage  and  fierce- 
ness that  if  we  had  not  dragged  him  off  him,  he  would 


430 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


have  beaten  or  bitten  him  to  death,  all  the  while  ex- 
claiming, ‘Oh  faithless  Fernando,  here,  here  shalt  thou 
pay  the  penalty  of  the  wrong  thou  hast  done  me ; 
these  hands  shall  tear  out  that  heart  of  thine,  abode 
and  dwelling  of  all  iniquity,  but  of  deceit  and  fraud 
above  all ; ’ and  to  these  he  added  other  words  all  in 
effect  upbraiding  this  Fernando  and  charging  him  with 
treachery  and  faithlessness.  We  forced  him  to  release 
his  hold  with  no  little  difficulty,  and  without  another 
word  he  left  us,  and  rushing  off  plunged  in  among 
these  brakes  and  brambles,  so  as  to  make  it  impossible 
for  us  to  follow  him ; from  this  we  suppose  that  mad- 
ness comes  upon  him  from  time  to  time,  and  that  some 
one  called  Fernando  must  have  done  him  a wrong  of 
a grievous  nature  such  as  the  condition  to  which  it  had 
brought  him  seemed  to  show.  All  this  has  been  since 
then  confirmed  on  those  occasions,  and  they  have 
been  many,  on  which  he  has  crossed  our  path,  at  one 
time  to  beg  the  shepherds  to  give  him  some  of  the 
food  they  carry,  at  another  to  take  it  from  them  by 
force ; for  when  there  is  a fit  of  madness  upon  him, 
even  though  the  shepherds  offer  it  freely,  he  will  not 
accept  it  but  snatches  it  from  them  by  dint  of  blows ; 
but  when  he  is  in  his  senses  he  begs  it  for  the  love  of 
Cjod,  courteously  and  civilly,  and  receives  it  with  many 
thanks  and  not  a few  tears.  And  to  tell  you  the  truth, 
sirs,”  continued  the  goatherd,  “ it  was  yesterday  that 
we  resolved,  I and  four  of  the  lads,  two  of  them  our 
servants,  and  the  other  two  friends  of  mine,  to  go  in 
search  of  him  until  we  find  him,  and  when  we  do  to 


CHAPTER  XX  III. 


43 


take  him,  whether  by  force  or  of  his  own  consent, 
to  the  town  of  Almodbvar,  which  is  eight  leagues  from 
this,  and  there  strive  to  cure  him  (if  indeed  his  malady 
admits  of  a cure),  or  learn  when  he  is  in  his  senses 
who  he  is,  and  if  he  has  relatives  to  whom  we  may 
give  notice  of  his  misfortune.  This,  sirs,  is  all  I can 
say  in  answer  to  what  you  have  asked  me ; and  be 
sure  that  the  owner  of  the  articles  you  found  is  he 
whom  you  saw  pass  by  with  such  nimbleness  and  so 
naked.”  For  Don  Quixote  had  already  described  how 
he  had  seen  the  man  go  bounding  along  the  mountain 
side,  and  he  was  now  filled  with  amazement  at  what 
he  heard  from  the  goatherd,  and  more  eager  than  ever 
to  discover  who  the  unhappy  madman  was ; and  in  his 
heart  he  resolved,  as  he  had  done  before,  to  search  for 
him  all  over  the  mountain,  not  leaving  a corner  or  cave 
unexamined  until  he  had  found  him.  But  chance  ar- 
ranged matters  better  than  he  expected  or  hoped,  for 
at  that  very  moment,  in  a gorge  on  the  mountain  that 
opened  where  they  stood,  the  youth  he  wished  to  find 
made  his  appearance,  coming  along  talking  to  himself 
in  a way  that  would  have  been  unintelligible  near  at 
hand,  much  more  at  a distance.  His  garb  was  what 
has  been  described,  save  that  as  he  drew  near,  Don 
Quixote  perceived  that  a tattered  doublet  which  he 
wore  was  amber-scented,^  from  which  he  concluded 

^ This  is  the  explanation  commonly  given  of  the  phrase  de  ambar,  and 
it  is  true  that  scented  doublets  were  in  fashion  in  the  sixteenth  century;  but 
it  seems  somewhat  improbable  that  a tattered  doublet  which  had  been  for  six 
months  exposed  to  all  weathers  would  have  retained  sufficient  perfume  to  be 
detected. 


432 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


that  one  who  wore  such  garments  could  not  be  of  very 
low  rank.  Approaching  them,  the  youth  greeted  them, 
in  a harsh  and  hoarse  voice  but  with  great  courtesy. 
Don  Quixote  returned  his  salutation  with  equal  polite- 
ness, and  dismounting  from  Rocinante  advanced  with 
well-bred  bearing  and  grace  to  embrace  him,  and  held 
him  for  some  time  close  in  his  arms  as  if  he  had 
known  him  for  a long  time.  The  other,  whom  we 
may  call  the  Ragged  One  of  the  Sorry  Countenance, 
as  Don  Quixote  was  of  the  Rueful,  after  submitting  to 
the  embrace  pushed  him  back  a little  and,  placing  his 
hands  on  Don  Quixote’s  shoulders,  stood  gazing  at  him 
as  if  seeking  to  see  whether  he  knew  him,  not  less 
amazed,  perhaps,  at  the  sight  of  the  face,  figure,  and 
armor  of  Don  Quixote  than  Don  Quixote  was  at  the 
sight  of  him.  To  be  brief,  the  first  to  speak  after 
embracing  was  the  Ragged  One,  and  he  said  what  will 
be  told  farther  on. 


CHAFTE/^  XXIV. 


433 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

IN  WHICH  IS  CONTINUED  THE  ADVENTURE  OF  THE 
SIERRA  MORENA. 

The  history  relates  that  it  was  with  the  greatest 
attention  Don  Quixote  listened  to  the  ill-starred  knight 
of  the  Sierra,  who  began  by  saying,  “Of  a surety, 
senor,  whoever  you  are,  for  I know  you  not,  I thank 
you  for  the  proofs  of  kindness  and  courtesy  you  have 
shown  me,  and  would  I were  in  a condition  to  requite 
with  something  more  than  good-will  that  which  you 
have  displayed  towards  me  in  the  cordial  reception 
you  have  given  me ; but  my  fate  does  not  afford  me 
any  other  means  of  returning  kindnesses  done  me  save 
the  hearty  desire  to  repay  them.” 

“ Mine,”  replied  Don  Quixote,  “ is  to  be  of  service 
to  you,  so  much  so  that  I had  resolved  not  to  quit 
these  mountains  until  I had  found  you,  and  learned  of 
you  whether  there  is  any  kind  of  relief  to  be  found 
for  that  sorrow  under  which  from  the  strangeness  of 
your  life  you  seem  to  labor;  and  to  search  for  you 
with  all  possible  diligence,  if  search  had  been  neces- 
sary. And  if  your  misfortune  should  prove  to  be  one 
of  those  that  refuse  admission  to  any  sort  of  consola- 
tion, it  was  my  purpose  to  join  you  in  lamenting  and 


434 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


mourning  over  it,  so  far  as  I could ; for  it  is  still  some 
comfort  in  misfortune  to  find  one  who  can  feel  for  it. 
And  if  my  good  intentions  deserve  to  be  acknowl- 
edged with  any  kind  of  courtesy,  I entreat  you,  senor, 
by  that  which  I perceive  you  possess  in  so  high  a 
degree,  and  likewise  conjure  you  by  whatever  you  love 
or  have  loved  best  in  life,  to  tell  me  who  you  are 
and  the  cause  that  has  brought  you  to  live  or  die 
in  these  solitudes  like  a brute  beast,  dwelling  among 
them  in  a manner  so  foreign  to  your  condition  as  your 
garb  and  appearance  show.  And  I swear,”  added 
Don  Quixote,  “ by  the  order  of  knighthood  which  I, 
though  unworthy  and  a sinner,  have  received,  and  by 
my  vocation  of  knight-errant,  if  you  gratify  me  in  this, 
to  serve  you  with  all  the  zeal  my  calling  demands  of 
me,  either  in  relieving  your  misfortune  if  it  admits 
of  relief,  or  in  joining  you  in  lamenting  it  as  I prom- 
ised to  do.” 

The  Knight  of  the  Thicket,  hearing  him  of  the 
Rueful  Countenance  talk  in  this  strain,  did  nothing 
but  stare  at  him,  and  stare  at  him  again,  and  again 
survey  him  from  head  to  foot ; and  when  he  had  thor- 
oughly examined  him,  he  said  to  him,  “ If  you  have  any 
thing  to  give  me  to  eat,  for  God’s  sake  give  it  me,  and 
after  I have  eaten  I will  do  all  you  ask  in  acknowl- 
edgment of  the  good-will  you  have  displayed  towards 
me.” 

Sancho  from  his  sack,  and  the  goatherd  from  his 
pouch,  furnished  the  Ragged  One  with  the  means  of 
appeasing  his  hunger,  and  what  they  gave  him  he  ate 


LIBRARY 
Of  THE 

UNIVERSITY  Of  ILLINOIS 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 


435 


like  a half-witted  being,  so  hastily  that  he  took  no  time 
between  mouthfuls,  gorging  rather  than  swallowing ; 
and  while  he  ate  neither  he  nor  they  who  observed 
him  uttered  a word.  As  soon  as  he  had  done  he 
made  signs  to  them  to  follow  him,  which  they  did, 
and  he  led  them  to  a green  plat  which  lay  a little 
farther  off  round  the  corner  of  a rock.  On  reaching 
it  he  stretched  himself  upon  the  grass,  and  the  others 
did  the  same,  all  keeping  silence,  until  the  Ragged 
One,  settling  himself  in  his  place,  said,  “ If  it  is  your 
wish,  sirs,  that  I should  disclose  in  a few  words  the 
surpassing  extent  of  my  misfortunes,  you  must  promise 
not  to  break  the  thread  of  my  sad  story  with  any 
question  or  other  interruption,  for  the  instant  you  do 
so  the  tale  I tell  will  come  to  an  end.” 

These  words  of  the  Ragged  One  reminded  Don 
Quixote  of  the  tale  his  squire  had  told  him,  when 
he  failed  to  keep  count  of  the  goats  that  had  crossed 
the  river  and  the  story  remained  unfinished ; but  to 
return  to  the  Ragged  One,  he  went  on  to  say,  ‘‘  I 
give  you  this  warning  because  I wish  to  pass  briefly 
over  the  story  of  my  misfortunes,  for  recalling  them 
to  memory  only  serves  to  add  fresh  ones,  and  the 
less  you  question  me  the  sooner  shall  I make  an 
end  of  the  recital,  though  I shall  not  omit  to  relate 
any  thing  of  importance  in  order  fully  to  satisfy  your 
curiosity.” 

Don  Quixote  gave  the  promise  for  himself  and  the 
others,  and  with  this  assurance  he  began  as  fol- 
lows : — 


436 


DON  QUIXOTE, 


My  name  is  Cardenio,  my  birthplace  one  of  the  best 
cities  of  this  Andalusia/  my  family  noble,  my  parents 
rich,  my  misfortune  so  great  that  my  parents  must  have 
wept  and  my  family  grieved  over  it  without  being  able  by 
their  wealth  to  lighten  it ; for  the  gifts  of  fortune  can  do 
little  to  relieve  reverses  sent  by  Heaven.  In  that  same 
country  there  was  a heaven  in  which  love  had  placed 
all  the  glory  I could  desire;  such  was  the  beauty  of 
Luscinda,  a damsel  as  noble  and  as  rich  as  I,  but  of  hap- 
pier fortunes,  and  of  less  firmness  than  was  due  to  so 
worthy  a passion  as  mine.  This  Luscinda  I loved,  wor- 
shipped, and  adored  from  my  earliest  and  tenderest  years, 
and  she  loved  me  in  all  the  innocence  and  sincerity  of 
childhood.  Our  parents  were  aware  of  our  feelings,  and 
were  not  sorry  to  perceive  them,  for  they  saw  clearly  that 
as  they  ripened  they  must  lead  at  last  to  a marriage  be- 
tween us,  a thing  that  seemed  almost  pre-arranged  by  the 
equality  of  our  families  and  wealth.  We  grew  up,  and 
with  our  growth  grew  the  love  between  us,  so  that  the 
father  of  Luscinda  felt  bound  for  propriety’s  sake  to  refuse 
me  admission  to  his  house,  in  this  perhaps  imitating  the 
parents  of  that  Thisbe  so  celebrated  by  the  poets,  and 
this  refusal  but  added  love  to  love  and  flame  to  flame ; 
for  though  they  enforced  silence  upon  our  tongues  they 
could  not  impose  it  upon  our  pens,  which  can  make 
known  the  heart’s  secrets  to  a loved  one  more  freely  than 


* This  indicates  that  the  spot  Cervantes  had  in  his  eye  was  somewhere 
above  the  head  of  the  Despenaperros  gorge  and  commanding  a view  of  the 
valley  of  the  Guadalquivir;  and  the  scenery  there  agrees  with  his  descrip- 
tion. He  was,  no  doubt,  familiar  with  it  from  having  passed  through  it  on 
his  journeys  between  Madrid  and  Seville  in  the  years  between  1587  and  1598. 
The  broom,  mentioned  farther  on,  is  very  abundant  in  this  part  of  the  Sierra 
Morena.  The  name  of  Cardenio,  too,  was  probably  suggested  by  Venta  de 
Cardenas,  a halting  place  at  the  mouth  of  the  gorge,  (K.  map.) 


CHAPTER  XX/V. 


437 


tongues  ; for  many  a time  the  presence  of  the  object  of 
love  shakes  the  firmest  will  and  strikes  dumb  the  boldest 
tongue.  Ah  heavens  ! how  many  letters  did  I write  her, 
and  how  many  dainty  modest  replies  did  I receive  ! how 
many  ditties  and  love-songs  did  I compose  in  which  my 
heart  declared  and  made  known  its  feelings,  described 
its  ardent  longings,  revelled  in  its  recollections  and  dal- 
lied with  its  desires ! At  length  growing  impatient  and 
feeling  my  heart  languishing  with  longing  to  see  her,  I 
resolved  to  put  into  execution  and  carry  out  what  seemed 
to  me  the  best  mode  of  winning  my  desired  and  merited 
reward,  to  ask  her  of  her  father  for  my  lawful  wife,  which 
I did.  To  this  his  answer  was  that  he  thanked  me  for 
the  disposition  I showed  to  do  honor  to  him  and  to  re- 
gard myself  as  honored  by  the  bestowal  of  his  treasure ; 
but  that  as  my  father  was  alive  it  was  his  by  right  to 
make  this  demand,  for  if  it  were  not  in  accordance  with 
his  full  will  and  pleasure,  Luscinda  was  not  to  be  taken 
or  given  by  stealth.  I thanked  him  for  his  kindness, 
reflecting  that  there  was  reason  in  what  he  said,  and  that 
my  father  would  assent  to  it  as  soon  as  I should  tell  him, 
and  with  that  view  I went  the  very  same  instant  to  let 
him  know  what  my  desires  were.  When  I entered  the 
room  where  he  was  I found  him  with  an  open  letter  in 
his  hand,  which,  before  I could  utter  a word,  he  gave  me, 
saying,  “ By  this  letter  thou  wilt  see,  Cardenio,  the  dispo- 
sition the  Duke  Ricardo  has  to  serve  thee.”  This  Duke 
Ricardo,  as  you,  sirs,  probably  know  already,  is  a grandee  * 
of  Spain  who  has  his  seat  in  the  best  part  of  this  Anda- 
lusia. I took  and  read  the  letter,  which  was  couched  in 
terms  so  flattering  that  even  I myself  felt  it  would  be 

I Grande  de  Espatia — one  enjoying  the  privilege  of  remaining  covered 
in  the  presence  of  the  sovereign. 


438 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


wrong  in  my  father  not  to  comply  with  the  request  the 
duke  made  in  it,  which  was  that  he  would  send  me  imme- 
diately to  him,  as  he  wished  me  to  become  the  compan- 
ion, not  servant,  of  his  eldest  son,  and  would  take  upon 
himself  the  charge  of  placing  me  in  a position  corre- 
sponding to  the  esteem  in  which  he  held  me.  On  read- 
ing the  letter  my  voice  failed  me,  and  still  more  when  I 
heard  my  father  say,  “ Two  days  hence  thou  wilt  depart, 
Cardenio,  in  accordance  with  the  duke’s  wish,  and  give 
thanks  to  God  who  is  opening  a road  to  thee  by  which 
thou  mayest  attain  what  I know  thou  dost  deserve ; ’’  and 
to  these  words  he  added  others  of  fatherly  counsel.  The 
time  for  my  departure  arrived  : I spoke  one  night  to 
Luscinda,  I told  her  all  that  had  occurred,  as  I did  also 
to  her  father,  entreating  him  to  allow  some  delay,  and  to 
defer  the  disposal  of  her  hand  until  I should  see  what 
the  Duke  Ricardo  sought  of  me : he  gave  me  the  prom- 
ise, and  she  confirmed  it  with  vows  and  swoonings  un- 
numbered. Finally,  I presented  myself  to  the  duke,  and 
was  received  and  treated  by  him  so  kindly  that  very 
soon  envy  began  to  do  its  work,  the  old  servants  grow- 
ing envious  of  me,  and  regarding  the  duke’s  inclination 
to  show  me  favor  as  an  injury  to  themselves.  But  the 
one  to  whom  my  arrival  gave  the  greatest  pleasure  was 
the  duke’s  second  son,  Fernando  by  name,  a gallant 
youth,  of  noble,  generous,  and  amorous  disposition,  who 
very  soon  made  so  intimate  a friend  of  me  that  it  was 
remarked  by  everybody  ; for  though  the  elder  was  at- 
tached to  me,  and  showed  me  kindness,  he  did  not  carry 
his  affectionate  treatment  to  the  same  length  as  Don 
Fernando.  It  so  happened,  then,  that  as  between  friends 
no  secret  remains  unshared,  and  as  the  intimacy  I en- 
joyed with  Don  Fernando  had  grown  into  friendship,  he 


CI/APTEJ^!  XX/ V. 


439 


made  all  his  thoughts  known  to  me,  and  in  particular  a 
love  affair  which  troubled  his  mind  a little.  He  was 
deeply  in  love  with  a peasant  girl,  a vassal  of  his  father’s, 
the  daughter  of  wealthy  parents,  and  herself  so  beautiful, 
modest,  discreet,  and  virtuous,  that  no  one  who  knew 
her  was  able  to  decide  in  which  of  these  respects  she 
was  most  highly  gifted  or  most  excelled.  The  attractions 
of  the  fair  peasant  raised  the  passion  of  Don  Fernanda 
to  such  a point  that,  in  order  to  gain  his  object  and  over- 
come her  virtuous  resolutions,  he  determined  to  pledge 
his  word  to  her  to  become  her  husband,  for  to  attempt  it 
in  any  other  way  was  to  attempt  an  impossibility.  Bound 
to  him  as  I was  by  friendship,  I strove  by  the  best  argu- 
ments and  the  most  forcible  examples  I could  think  of 
to  restrain  and  dissuade  him  from  such  a course ; but 
perceiving  I produced  no  effect  I resolved  to  make  the 
Duke  Ricardo,  his  father,  acquainted  with  the  matter; 
but  Don  Fernando,  being  sharp-witted  and  shrewd,  fore- 
saw and  apprehended  this,  perceiving  that  by  my  duty  as 
a good  servant  I was  bound  not  to  keep  concealed  a thing 
so  much  opposed  to  the  honor  of  my  lord  the  duke  ; and 
so,  to  mislead  and  deceive  me,  he  told  me  he  could  find 
no  better  way  of  effacing  from  his  mind  the  beauty  that 
so  enslaved  him  than  by  absenting  himself  for  some 
months,  and  that  he  wished  the  absence  to  be  effected 
by  our  going,  both  of  us,  to  my  father’s  house  under  the 
pretence,  which  he  would  make  to  the  duke,  of  going  to 
see  and  buy  some  fine  horses  that  there  were  in  my  city, 
which  produces  the  best  in  the  world.*  When  I heard 
him  say  so,  even  if  his  resolution  had  not  been  so  good 
a one  I should  have  hailed  it  as  one  of  the  happiest  that 


^ Cordova  was  famed  for  its  horses. 


440 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


could  be  imagined,  prompted  by  my  affection,  seeing 
what  a favorable  chance  and  opportunity  it  offered  me 
of  returning  to  see  my  Luscinda.  With  this  thought  and 
wish  I commended  his  idea  and  encouraged  his  design, 
advising  him  to  put  it  into  execution  as  quickly  as  possi- 
ble, as,  in  truth,  absence  produced  its  effect  in  spite  of 
the  most  deeply  rooted  feelings.  But,  as  afterwards  ap- 
peared, when  he  said  this  to  me  he  had  already  enjoyed 
the  peasant  girl  under  the  title  of  husband,  and  was  wait- 
ing for  an  opportunity  of  making  it  known  with  safety  to 
himself,  being  in  dread  of  what  his  father  the  duke  would 
do  when  he  came  to  know  of  his  folly.  It  happened, 
then,  that  as  with  young  men  love  is  for  the  most  part 
. nothing  more  than  appetite,  which,  as  its  final  object  is 
enjoyment,  comes  to  an  end  on  obtaining  it,  and  that 
which  seemed  to  be  love  takes  to  flight,  as  it  cannot  pass 
the  limit  fixed  by  nature,  which  fixes  no  limit  to  true  love  * 
— what  I mean  is  that  after  Don  Fernando  had  enjoyed 
this  peasant  girl  his  passion  subsided  and  his  eagerness 
cooled,  and  if  at  first  he  feigned  a wish  to  absent  himself 
in  order  to  cure  his  love,  he  was  now  in  reality  anxious 
to  go  to  avoid  keeping  his  promise. 

The  duke  gave  him  permission,  and  ordered  me  to 
accompany  him ; we  arrived  at  my  city,  and  my  father 
gave  him  the  reception  due  to  his  rank ; I saw  Luscinda 
without  delay,  and,  though  it  had  not  been  dead  or  dead- 
ened, my  love  gathered  fresh  life.  To  my  sorrow  I told 
the  story  of  it  to  Don  Fernando,  for  I thought  that  in 
virtue  of  the  great  friendship  he  bore  me  I was  bound  to 
conceal  nothing  from  him.  I extolled  her  beauty,  her 

* This  is  an  example  of  the  clumsy  manner  in  which  Cervantes  often 
constructed  his  sentences,  beginning  them  in  one  way  and  ending  them  in 
another. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 


441 


gayety,  her  wit,  so  warmly,  that  my  praises  excited  in 
him  a desire  to  see  a damsel  adorned  by  such  attractions. 
To  my  misfortune  I yielded  to  it,  showing  her  to  him 
one  night  by  the  light  of  a taper  at  a window  where  we 
used  to  talk  to  one  another.  As  she  appeared  to  him  in 
her  dressing-gown,  she  drove  all  the  beauties  he  had  seen 
until  then  out  of  his  recollection ; speech  failed  him,  his 
head  turned,  he  was  spell-bound,  and  in  the  end  love- 
smitten,  as  you  will  see  in  the  course  of  the  story  of  my 
misfortune;  and  to  inflame  still  further  his  passion,  which 
he  hid  from  me  and  revealed  to  Heaven  alone,  it  so  hap- 
pened that  one  day  he  found  a note  of  hers  entreating 
me  to  demand  her  of  her  father  in  marriage,  so  delicate, 
so  modest,  and  so  tender,  that  on  reading  it  he  told  me 
that  in  Luscinda  alone  were  combined  all  the  charms  of 
beauty  and  understanding  that  were  distributed  among 
all  the  other  women  in  the  world.  It  is  true,  and  I own 
it  now,  that  though  I knew  what  good  cause  Don  Fer- 
nando had  to  praise  Luscinda,  it  gave  me  uneasiness  to 
hear  these  praises  from  his  mouth,  and  I began  to  fear, 
and  with  reason  to  feel  distrust  of  him,  for  there  was 
no  moment  when  he  was  not  ready  to  talk  of  Luscinda, 
and  he  would  start  the  subject  himself  even  though  he 
dragged  it  in  unseasonably,  a circumstance  that  aroused 
in  me  a certain  amount  of  jealousy;  not  that  I feared  any 
change  in  the  constancy  or  faith  of  Luscinda ; but  still 
my  fate  led  me  to  forebode  what  she  assured  me  against. 
Don  Fernando  contrived  always  to  read  the  letters  I sent 
to  Luscinda  and  her  answers  to  me,  under  the  pretence 
that  he  enjoyed  the  wit  and  sense  of  both.  It  so  hap- 
pened, then,  that  Luscinda  having  begged  of  me  a book 
of  chivalry  to*  read,  one  that  she  was  very  fond  of, 
“ Amadis  of  Gaul  ” — 


442 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


Don  Quixote  no  sooner  heard  a book  of  chivalry 
mentioned,  than  he  said,  “ Had  your  worship  told  me 
at  the  beginning  of  your  story  that  the  Lady  Luscinda 
was  fond  of  books  of  chivalry,  no  other  laudation 
would  have  been  requisite  to  impress  upon  me  the 
superiority  of  her  understanding,  for  it  could  not  have 
been  of  the  excellence  you  describe  had  a taste  for 
such  delightful  reading  been  wanting ; so,  as  far  as  I 
am  concerned,  you  need  waste  no  more  words  in  de- 
scribing her  beauty,  worth,  and  intelligence  : for,  on 
merely  hearing  what  her  taste  was,  I declare  her  to  be 
the  most  beautiful  and  the  most  intelligent  woman  in 
the  world ; and  I wish  your  worship  had,  along  with 
Amadis  of  Gaul,  sent  her  the  worthy  Don  Rugel  of 
Greece,  for  I know  the  Lady  Luscinda  would  greatly 
relish  Daraida  and  Garaya,  and  the  shrewd  sayings  of 
the  shepherd  Darinel,  and  the  admirable  verses  of  his 
bucolics,  sung  and  delivered  by  him  with  such  spright- 
liness, wit,  and  ease ; but  a time  may  come  when  this 
omission  can  be  remedied,  and  to  rectify  it  nothing 
more  is  needed  than  for  your  worship  to  be  so  good 
as  to  come  with  me  to  my  village,  for  there  I can  give 
you  more  than  three  hundred  books  which  are  the 
delight  of  my  soul  and  the  entertainment  of  my  life  ; 
— though  it  occurs  to  me  that  I have  not  got  one  of 
them  now,  thanks  to  the  spite  of  wicked  and  envious 
enchanters ; — but  pardon  me  for  having  broken  the 
promise  we  made  not  to  interrupt  your  discourse ; for 
when  I hear  chivalry  or  knights-errantf  mentioned,  I 
can  no  more  help  talking  about  them  than  the  rays  of 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 


443 


the  sun  can  help  giving  heat,  or  those  of  the  moon 
moisture ; pardon  me,  therefore,  and  proceed,  for  that 
is  more  to  the  purpose  now.” 

While  Don  Quixote  was  saying  this,  Cardenio 
allowed  his  head  to  fall  upon  his  breast,  and  seemed 
plunged  in  deep  thought ; and  though  twice  Don  Qui- 
xote bade  him  go  on  with  his  story,  he  neither  looked 
up  nor  uttered  a word  in  reply ; but  after  some  time 
he  raised  his  head  and  said,  I cannot  get  rid  of  the 
idea,  nor  will  any  one  in  the  world  remove  it,  or  make 
me  think  otherwise,  — and  he  would  be  a blockhead 
who  would  hold  or  believe  any  thing  else  than  that 
that  arrant  knave  Master  Elisabad  made  free  with 
Queen  Madasima.” 

‘‘That  is  not  true,  by  all  that’s  good,”  said  Don 
Quixote  in  high  wrath,  turning  upon  him  angrily,  as 
his  way  was  ; “ and  it  is  a very  great  slander,  or  rather 
villany.  Queen  Madasima  was  a very  illustrious  lady, 
and  it  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  so  exalted  a princess 
would  have  made  free  with  a quack ; and  whoever 
maintains  the  contrary  lies  like  a great  scoundrel,  and 
I will  give  him  to  know  it,  on  foot  or  on  horseback, 
armed  or  unarmed,  by  night  or  by  day,  or  as  he  likes 
best.” 

Cardenio  was  looking  at  him  steadily,  and  his  mad 
fit  having  now  come  upon  him,  he  had  no  disposition 
to  go  on  with  his  story,  nor  would  Don  Quixote  have 
listened  to  it,  so  much  had  what  he  had  heard  about 
Madasima  disgusted  him.  Strange  to  say,  he  stood 
up  for  her  as  if  she  were  in  earnest  his  veritable  bom 


444 


DON  QUIXOTE. 


lady ; to  such  a pass  had  his  unholy  books  brought 
him.  Cardenio,  then,  being,  as  I said,  now  mad,  when 
he  heard  himself  given  the  lie,  and  called  a scoundrel 
and  other  insulting  names,  not  relishing  the  jest, 
snatched  up  a stone  that  he  found  near  him,  and  with 
it  delivered  such  a blow  on  Don  Quixote’s  breast  that 
he  laid  him  on  his  back.  Sancho  Panza,  seeing  his 
master  treated  in  this  fashion,  attacked  the  madman 
with  his  closed  fist ; but  the  Ragged  One  received  him 
in  such  a way  that  with  a blow  of  his  fist  he  stretched 
him  at  his  feet,  and  then  mounting  upon  him  crushed 
his  ribs  to  his  own  satisfaction ; the  goatherd,  who 
came  to  the  rescue,  shared  the  same  fate ; and  having 
‘beaten  and  pummelled  them  all  he  left  them  and 
quietly  withdrew  to  his  hiding-place  on  the  mountain. 
Sancho  rose,  and  with  the  rage  he  felt  at  finding  him- 
self so  belabored  without  deserving  it,  ran  to  take  ven- 
geance on  the  goatherd,  accusing  him  of  not  giving 
them  warning  that  this  man  was  at  times  taken  with 
a mad  fit,  for  if  they  had  known  it  they  would  have 
been  on  their  guard  to  protect  themselves.  The  goat- 
herd replied  that  he  had  said  so,  and  that  if  he  had 
not  heard  him,  that  was  no  fault  of  his.  Sancho  re- 
torted, and  the  goatherd  rejoined,  and  the  altercation 
ended  in  their  seizing  each  other  by  the  beard,  and 
exchanging  such  fisticuffs  that  if  Don  Quixote  had  not 
made  peace  between  them,  they  would  have  knocked 
one  another  to  pieces.  Leave  me  alone.  Sir  Knight 
of  the  Rueful  Countenance,”  said  Sancho,  grappling 
with  the  goatherd,  “ for  of  this  fellow,  who  is  a clown 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 


445 


like  myself,  and  no  dubbed  knight,  I can  safely  take 
satisfaction  for  the  affront  he  has  offered  me,  fighting 
with  him  hand  to  hand  like  an  honest  man.” 

“That  is  true,”  said  Don  Quixote,  “but  I know 
that  he  is  not  to  blame  for  what  has  happened.” 

With  this  he  pacified  them,  and  again  asked  the 
goatherd  if  it  would  be  possible  to  find  Cardenio,  as 
he  felt  the  greatest  anxiety  to  know  the  end  of  his 
story.  The  goatherd  told  him,  as  he  had  told  him 
before,  that  there  was  no  knowing  of  a certainty  where 
his  lair  was ; but  that  if  he  wandered  about  much  in 
that  neighborhood  he  could  not  fail  to  fall  in  with  him 
either  in  or  out  of  his  senses. 


University  Press  ; John  Wilson  & Son,  Cambridge- 


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